


Monte Carlo Twilight

by Leivyra



Category: White Collar
Genre: Catholic Character, Catholic Imagery, First Impressions, First Meetings, Gambling, Gen, Matthew Keller Just Wants to Go Home, Misunderstandings, Neal Caffrey's Eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25915762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leivyra/pseuds/Leivyra
Summary: The Grant Hotel, Monaco. Keller hated Monaco; Keller knew he would hate Monaco as soon as he stepped off the train, but he also knew it would be worth his while. An easy score - an uncomplicated gambit of sleights of hand and disappearing acts, and a tidy sum in profit. In a day. Keller could handle a day.Keller would have handled a day, and he would have been gone - if only this little brat hadn't crashed his party...
Relationships: Neal Caffrey & Matthew Keller, Neal Caffrey & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you very much for opening this little story of mine (even if your hand slipped and it was a complete accident...). This is my first post to this site - very happy to be able to share!
> 
> I've had this kicking around for awhile now, and I've been a bit apprehensive to post anything - mostly because I'm afraid to subject everyone to purple prose (I'll apologize in advance). But then I thought, "Hey, they can always hit the 'Back' button... Why not post?" - and here I am!
> 
> This is a 3-part little story, and it sort of sets the stage for a much longer one (which I also have kicking around) that takes place during the canon timeline; I may never post that one, but this I felt was pretty safe to let out there. 
> 
> I'll throw in the Disclaimer now... I do not own White Collar, nor do I own the characters that appear therein (the canon); I do own anyone who doesn't appear in the show, as far as they're mentioned here... I also have never been to Monaco, and certainly not in 1998, but I tried to do a little research to make it a bit...less ridiculously inaccurate.
> 
> Finally, I'll throw in a warning here for potentially offensive references to Catholicism (relatively fleeting), and for Keller's potty mouth. 
> 
> Thank you much, and please enjoy!

Monaco truly is lovely this time of year. The sun shines brightly yet gently on the edges of the glistening sea, waves lazily lapping at the sandy shore - at the ankles of barefoot and, none too occasionally, bare-breasted women who may forgo their shoes and tops, but wouldn’t be caught dead without their jewelry. It’s an enigma, being half-garbed in naught but precious gems while sunbathing beneath the azure sky, lulled by whispering palms swaying in the summer breeze; it should be very much out of place, but it isn’t. Because this part of Monaco, along the Plage du Larvotto, isn’t the least bit mysterious; it and its finery are far too conspicuous for that. Instead, it simply _is_ , and it’s understood. It’s breathtaking. It’s idyllic.

It’s not something Matthew Keller could get used to; it’s not his cup of tea.

Or, he should say, his tumbler of scotch; that’s more like it. And apt; looking down at his empty glass, he realizes he needs another.

The sun isn’t shining now, the hour gone too late, and the sky is looking far more like onyx than lapis lazuli at the moment. Thank God for small mercies; he was getting tired of dodging the all too numerous windows about the room. He’s never been one for sun, or surf, or _sand_ \- God, if he had a choice between a beach and a firing squad, he might just take a knee and brace for impact. That stuff, polished bits of quartz and shells and Heaven knows what else - that _sand_ … He has no desire to touch it - go waltzing through piles of eroded rock and countless crustaceans’ former abodes - because the littlest contact is too much; it gets _everywhere_ , places he’d never even _think_ of, and no matter how silky smooth it _looks_ , it’s as good as _gravel_ against the skin. It _itches_ , and it _prickles_ , and it _cuts_ like little ants with little knives; it drives him up the wall _and_ through the roof. 

No sir, no sand for this city slicker; he’ll take a concrete jungle any day of the week.

The thought of his nemesis is bad enough, and as he approaches the bar for that long-overdue refill, Keller barely contains the urge to scratch at those infuriating armed _pismires_ ...but he does, fortunately, contain himself. That...well, it’d likely offend the bartender - or, at least, cast him in some unfavorable light. He has no doubt the seasoned man before him, whose face is as pleasant as it is entirely disingenuous, has seen his fair share of bizarre patrons. This is a hall for the rich and famous...or, in his case, those not at all famous and merely _pretending_ to be rich; no doubt they’ve had a few nutters roll through, if with sufficient funds so as not to be bothered. But he doesn’t intend to place himself in that category, no; he doesn’t intend to place himself in _any_ category that anyone, including the barkeep, will recall, because that would go against the very nature of his visit.

The booze is a nice touch - so are the dolled-up dames in glamorous gowns - but that’s not why he’s here; he’s here for _work_. And in his business, it’s better not to make an impression.

“Macallan, please,” he orders, as though the bartender won’t remember; he’s already had two. “18.”

“Right away, sir.”

Keller almost laughs at that - calling him “Sir”... It’s hard to imagine what exactly about him suggests he deserves the courtesy, slumdog from the East End that he is; he supposes it shouldn’t be - hard to imagine - because it’s all part and parcel of hospitality. But still, it’s odd - once again, not something he necessarily needs to get used to; he’s managed long enough without.

Once he’s accepted his drink, thanked its provider as the courtesy he’d mentioned dictates he should - that, and not wanting to leave an impression as an uncultured swine - and turned back to the bustling room, Keller finally does pull at his tie. He hates ties; they never fail to chafe like a damn _noose_ , no matter how loosely he attempts to wear them. Not that he attempted that tonight; he did up his monkey suit as proper and spiffy as is expected of him, and every other poor sod in this place who’s been similarly voluntold. Based on a couple, and _only_ a couple, glances from a sparse few high-society ladies he’s noted in his peripheral vision, he looks good - cleans up nice, they’d say, if they had the displeasure of witnessing his usual appearance. He ought to be flattered, and he is, but only _just_ ; he’d rather shake his head than meet those gazes with a grateful eye. Because, in his opinion - when he did a once-over in the mirror before setting out for this damned casino - he did clean up...but he _looks_ like a pretentious _twat_.

Just as well, though; it’s all the rage in the Monte Carlo twilight.

Candlelight, he should say; twilight passed hours ago, and on _that_ note, he’d best get back to work. It’s profoundly unpleasant, tearing himself away from the comfort and solitude of the bar to mingle with the crowd - unpleasant, but necessary. He’s collecting intel, as it were, trying to discern where these foppish fashion plates are spending their nights after they’ve been politely asked _not_ to order another drink and gambled away their daily allowance. That doesn’t mean he’s _all_ ears - quite the opposite. Keller is, has ever been, and will ever be an opportunist; he’s not about to pass on the chance to lift a fair lady’s bracelet, after she’s had a bit too much to notice - or her ring, should he decide it looks better in his pocket than it does on her finger. Not her wedding ring, though; that’d be too vulgar, even for _him -_ still a tiny bit of a gentleman left in him, if one can believe it. He wouldn’t, truth be told, but the thought’s never crossed his mind; that’s proof enough.

It’s funny; as he entertained that inner monologue, he actually did pocket a few trinkets - won’t know what they’re really worth till later, when he has the time to examine them but, at worst, it’ll still cover his bar tab. That’ll be fine; it’s all pennies compared to what he’s really after - the kind of gems too impressive and, in other words, too _sizeable_ to _not_ be missed, even _with_ copious amounts of alcohol. The kind of bulky ornaments the _distinguished_ generation wears, handed down from great-great-grannies of old - gone too far a ways out of mode for an airheaded trophy wife to appreciate, or wear in public. To be frank, Keller is not the least bit interested in whatever supposedly chic bits, baubles, or bijoux have rolled off the runway this season; his eyes are entirely devoted to the _classics_. 

And why not? They command the highest prices, in the end - fetch them, when loosed on the black market, and they _never_ go out of style.

He’s scoping out one such lady now, in fact - a middle-aged Russian matron, dressed to the nines, in the possession of what looks to be a _very_ nice Cartier brooch. Circa 1930s-40s, if he had to guess - the _brooch_ , not the woman...though he doubts that’d be _too_ far off; it’s hard to tell from this distance, but it won’t be for much longer. He’s approaching, albeit cautiously - like a shark in the water, circling his prey. He wouldn’t dream of hurting her - of course not - but he _is_ planning to eavesdrop on her conversation, because wherever she’s calling home during her stay…? That’s where _he’ll_ be, soon as she’s stepped out; with any luck, she’ll leave her brooch on the vanity - maybe a couple more things, too, to make a set. Easy pickings...and a job well done.

Or...it would have been, if he _did_ eavesdrop and _did_ glean a hotel and/or room number, but he doesn’t - and so, it isn’t. And it’s not because she doesn’t mention it; she may, truthfully, but if so, he’s going to miss it - not paying attention. Normally, he’d chide himself for that, and he likely _will_ when he has the time to think about it, but he won’t do it now. Because something else caught his eye - bright-blue gemstones from across the room, and he can’t help but abandon his earlier plan in favor of taking a look. He meant for it to be a _peek_ , just long enough to determine whether or not it was worth it for him to pursue...but here he is, a good ten seconds later, and still staring. Part of that is disbelief - that his attention has been so thoroughly captured - because those stones...aren’t stones at all. They’re _eyes_ , like something out of a fairy tale - damn _mesmerizing_...and not even looking his way.

Thank God; that would be very embarrassing.

“Holy Christ… Who is _that_ …?”

Keller hopes he didn’t say that out loud; even if the proud owner of those captivating orbs can’t possibly hear him, actually _speaking_ it would give it enough substance to induce that self-criticism early. And, as he said, that’d be embarrassing; at the very least, the other patrons might decide to steer clear of him and thus foil his work for the evening. Besides, it does him a disservice. He’s a professional, not some plucky teenager who can’t resist a pretty face - least of all a _man’s_ pretty face; there ought to not be enough of a beating heart left in his ribcage for him to be drawn to anything _but_ cold, hard cash. Or, what can be _traded_ for the stuff. And he’s not; he’s _not_ drawn in, and the distinctive, light green hue of US dollars is the _only_ kind of _green_ he has time for - the rest of his naïveté withered on the vine years ago, alongside his youth. 

But lo and behold, he’s not yet torn his eyes away; as the stranger glides, not steps, gracefully along the far wall, they follow. It’s a damn shame, wasting his evening on this, but Keller can do no more than recognize that truth as it passes him by, and it’s not because that face is turning back the clock - thawing the ice about his skin that’s been a lifetime in the making. The glacier isn’t melting, thank God...but if it were, he supposes he’d have to accept it - see to fixing _that_ when his work here is done. There’d be no point in worrying about it; it _would_ be fixable, and he _would_ understand his brief lapse in sense, however annoying.

‘Cuz that bloke ain’t _pretty_ ; he’s _beautiful_.

He sure as Hell _better_ be _rich_ …

That’s what Keller tells himself when his legs start moving on their own accord, guiding him through the crowd in a fucking _trance_ ; there’s no telling how many rings, bracelets, cufflinks, and wristwatches he passes without so much as _thinking_ of lifting them. He’s glad there’s no telling, truly, because it’s probably a staggering figure - one that’d see him hang his head in shame as soon as he snaps out of this _haze_ . That _thing_ over there, who can’t quite be _human_ , is talking - hopefully saying _something_ Keller can use to his advantage later, like the combination to the wall safe in his room. All right; it probably won’t be that easy, but he creeps closer nonetheless, still intent on listening in. He’s almost within earshot. In fact, he _is_ within earshot; he can _hear_ his voice, sure as he sees that pearly-white smile, but he can’t, as yet, distinguish the words. Normally, he’d be able to, but…

It’s not English.

That’s about all he can tell, at this point; each time he _thought_ he had an idea, he promptly dismissed it. At first, he was _sure_ it was Italian...but suddenly, not so much; the man turned to someone on his right - by God, it’s the woman with the Cartier brooch! - and his accent turned distinctly Slavic. Russian, then…? Well, that’s fine - so be it; Keller isn’t sure how he mistook that nasal pitch for a Mediterranean lilt, but he must have done...or, the _haze_ must have done it. But it doesn’t matter; he’s perfectly capable of following along. And, who knows, maybe he’ll kill two birds with one stone - not _literally_ , mind; he’s not taken a shot at a single pigeon in a decade, save those made of _clay_. Nor does he plan to, unless the apocalypse dawns - like that loony preacher used to shout it would, atop his soapbox on the corner of Butcher Row and Ratcliffe Lane - and thus leaves him with little choice. He’s doubtful it will, despite that solitary man’s ravings; if memory serves, the world was _supposed_ to end four times already - no reason to think he finally got it right. 

He’s off on a tangent, thinking about those flying rats and that firebrand preacher; the _point_ he’s trying to make is that burgling _two_ wealthy patrons in one night would be a fine day’s work. 

“Please, let me introduce you…”

If Keller had less self-restraint, he’d _scoff_ ; all that effort, meandering over here so as to listen intently without the accent hindering him, and _now_ the guy decides to speak English…? Tch, all for _naught_ ; he could’ve kept his distance. He should have in the first place - knows he should have, and it’s like God’s taken it upon Himself to make that abundantly clear. To chastise him, probably, and remind him that curiosity killed the cat… But this chap, straight out of some teenage girl’s wildest dreams…? He doesn’t look the least bit threatening, nor does he appear to have noticed him; what’s the harm _there_ , eh? And now, he just might have stumbled upon something useful; the man - just a _kid_ , really, now that he’s close enough to make out the rest of his face - has his arm around some woman’s waist. She wasn’t there before - must’ve gone to the powder room, or wherever else ladies get off to in places like this - but Keller watches her closely, because he has a sense…or something like it. Maybe it’s hope, similar to the one he had before; maybe he’s just _wishing_ with all he has in him that she’s positively _loaded_ , as he hoped her boyish companion was, and that whatever adornments she’s selected for the evening will make this somewhat daring approach worthwhile. 

“The Grand…? Ah, yes; we looked at that - beautiful place, just along the coast…” The Russian is speaking now, her thick accent cutting through the cloud of side conversations - refined and stately, the closest, and slurred with drink towards the bar. “We decided against it; my husband, he preferred the Métropole.”

Well damn - looks like it’ll be one bird after all; after fending off the sun and the surf for the entirety of his stay, Keller hasn’t the energy to hit two places in one night. Exhausting work, that - the fending off of other people’s idea of paradise, of course; thieving itself is a bloody cakewalk. But he continues to listen because he has a choice to make - a bird to choose, as it were. Will it be the matronly Russian with her vintage Cartier, or instead this newcomer with whatever it is _she_ brings to the table? - time will tell. More to the point, _he_ will; he’ll decide as soon as she turns around, giving him a better view of her assets…ahem, in a purely _professional_ sense, that is. She’s turning now, in fact, as she and her companion part company with their newfound acquaintance; good thing, too, because he’s feeling a bit antsy. He can’t really place the feeling, or the reason behind it; it seems...far fetched, but somehow, that woman is familiar - like he’s seen her somewhere before, but doesn’t _know_ her. 

That’s frustrating; he’s usually spot on with names, and putting them to faces. Granted, he hasn’t fully seen her face as yet, but that talent extends to auras too; _that’s_ what’s familiar about her. It’s something in the way she carries herself - some kind of dignity, more genuine than the ones select (most) _other_ people in this place are touting. And, as she at long last does face him, he can immediately see why; she’s grace personified - simply _stunning_ , on an intrinsic level that has nothing at all to do with her tasteful evening gown, or her marble visage, or the blue-eyed beauty on her arm. _Or_ , he later adds, the jewels around her neck, or those hanging from her ears and wrist. Those may not matter to her, as she’s the definition of _classic_ without them, but still, the _sight_ of all those stones stops him dead in his tracks - takes the wind right out of his lungs. Suddenly, she’s not just familiar; who _exactly_ she is smacks him straight across the face, and it’s a thunderous blow indeed; he nearly drops his scotch.

 _Christ_ on a… No - Jesus, Mary, _and_ Joseph on a _tandem_ ; it’s Marie-Hélène de Troigny, the _Countess_ of Cahors…!

Normally, Keller doesn’t bother with the blue-blooded rich and famous; at least, he’s not the sort to follow them in the tabloids, nor has he any fucks to give about their glossy travel itineraries or their bad habits. _Normally_ , it’s not worth his time; their stately manors may not boast the best security, but their holdings - sculptures, painted canvases, Easter eggs tricked out by the House of Fabergé… They’re _too_ famous - too recognizable to be safely fenced on the black market. They _can_ be fenced, of course - can and have been, and ever will be; he’s done it himself. But they come with greater _risk_ attached, and in his experience, there’s an inverse relationship between risk to the fence and percent payout to the provider - enough of a dent in his potential earnings that he soon enough quit dealing with all that. But _jewels_ …? That’s a different story, because jewels and their settings are _malleable_ ; they can be taken apart, put back together, and passed off as entirely new pieces, recently uncovered from a bygone age, and no one’s the wiser. In fact, vintage gems are quickly becoming easier to deal than their modern equivalents - at least, as far as _diamonds_ go - ever since that relatively new and _infuriating_ process of engraving them with _serial numbers_ came about. Bane of thieves everywhere, that, and the scourge of a trend is terribly _catching_ ; Keller wonders if it’ll be long before _all_ stones are fucking _tagged_. 

He hopes it will be long - bad for business.

In any case, that’s not a concern with _these_ jewels adorning Her Ladyship tonight. They’re _heirloom_ jewels - _the_ heirloom jewels, actually; they’ve been in the de Troigny family for generations, and are probably the very _last_ asset of any material value to the name. Yes, it’s true he doesn’t follow _gossip_ , but he’s heard about that family’s fall from grace; it was years in the making, and the Second World War put the last nail in the coffin. He heard they lost everything - that they were set to, even before the Germans came; their prestige was the first to go, and their estate followed soon after. But he’d _also_ heard that _everything_ was never all-inclusive; they never sold those jewels, despite how doing so might just have saved them - old money, too proud for that. 

It’s almost...sad, but not sad enough. Like he said, the Countess doesn’t need those trinkets; he’ll _gladly_ take them off her hands. He can’t help it; this bird he’s picked is a _golden goose_ \- all goes well, he can hop the first train out of this _sandy_ Garden of Eden come morning.

What a _relief_ …!

With that truly tantalizing prospect in mind, he inches closer - hot on the unsuspecting couple’s trail as they leave the bar, apparently in search of the excitement about the poker tables in the adjoining room. _Hall_ , more like - none of these spaces are mere _rooms_ ; the decorative ceilings in the palatial mansion of a casino are about as high as a SoHo loft is long… But he does wonder, Keller, and not about the architecture; what troubles him is this: Marie-Hélène doesn’t have any family - last of her line, as it were. This man she has with her...no, this _boy_ dressed as a man she’s brought along - who is _he_ ? Not her grandson; the aforementioned end of her family tree all too obviously attests to that, and her storied reclusiveness similarly suggests he’s not a godson or a friend. Unless, of course, he’s one of... _those_ people - the kind of _friend_ whose time is...err, _compensated_ , to be polite. He tries not to shiver, for that seems to be the most _logical_ assumption - no doubt what everyone in this gambling den is thinking as they regard the pair; God, there’s only a few lows to which he’s never stooped, and that’s on the list. He’d think it’d be on _her_ list too, classy as she is, but...evidently not. Whatever spare pennies the Countess has stashed away, she is apparently dedicating them to a jailbait _escort_. 

As though the mighty hadn’t already _fallen_ …! Suddenly, any qualms he may have had about making off with what remains of her legacy vanish into thin air. 

Just as well; he needed some further incentive to get this show on the road, and that little tidbit of supposition does the trick. He would immediately set to it - step forward and see if he can work out which room they two call home and take his leave just as fast, to stake it out. But he stops; actually, he takes a step in reverse, leaning back just enough for his person to be obscured by a decidedly _large_ patron. He had no choice, because those too-blue eyes suddenly turned to him, cut through the heavy, cologne and perfume-scented air and struck him like a fucking thunderbolt; Keller’s head is nothing less than level, but his heart skipped a beat. He knows that feeling - felt it once or twice before - but he can’t _believe_ it’s hit him _now_ . It’s one of those bizarre things, familiar and yet _foreign_ , for how rare - the feeling that he’s been _made_ ...and _made_ by a bloody _tart_ …!

No; he won’t believe it - good thing he can’t. There’s no way - no _way_ ; it’s not _possible_ . It’s just his _nerves_ , he decides - those vestigial little things that he’s apparently not _quite_ managed to cast off in the course of his evolution - and those _eyes_ . They’re the true culprits, shining so unabashedly bright - like they can pierce the darkness about _his_ soul...but he can’t reasonably blame them, seeing as _he’s_ the one giving them credit where it isn’t due. _He’s_ the one acting the _fool_ , like a damn child with a guilty conscience. And that’s all it is, an act, because Keller is no fool, and his conscience is far too discriminating to take a shine to _guilt_ ; that concept is not completely alien, but it _is_ undocumented. It _is_ unwelcome, and he _will_ cut it off at the root.

He’s not much for gardening, but the sharpness and skill with which he, unabashed and guiltless as those damn eyes, lifts that fat patron’s pocket watch and bravely steps, once again, into view is as good as any pruning shears.

There’s a bit of respite when he does; the kid has looked away, back to the Countess - back to his...well, whatever political correctness dictates he should call her. They’re talking now, not low but not loudly all the same, and Keller listens - closely, though that may not be necessary; the words are still English, though the accents are not. The Countess’, he could have anticipated, but the kid’s? Keller wasn’t sure, when he was speaking earlier; the hall was too littered with extraneous noise to tell with any certainty. Now, though, it’s crystal clear; he may not know how the not-so-good Madame de Troigny found this one, or how she _is_ paying him, but he does know one thing without a doubt. And that, albeit rather trivial and not exactly helpful _or_ harmful, is this; her pretty piece of arse is _American_.

Trivial, right…? But hey, who’d have thought?

“Noël.” The Countess is speaking, a kind gleam in her eyes as she holds out her hand, yet with an almost chiding note to her voice. Keller can’t yet tell why, but he’s not very interested; he’s gleaned a bit more already. It may be trivial, but at the very least he’s acquired a _name_ for that beautiful face...even if the sound of it doesn’t seem to fit his stateside origin. “Your room key; you forgot it.”

Did he, now…? Perhaps he’s having second thoughts about their _arrangement_ … Well, that’s Keller’s initial opinion, but Noël’s response doesn’t really match that speculation - quite the opposite.

“I’m sorry; that was careless of me.” All right, that in and of itself is neither here nor there; it’s the look in his eyes and the grin on his face that are out of place - along with what he says next, after accepting the key. “But, I didn’t think you’d be leaving _without_ me…”

Good grief; that little flutter of a blink wasn’t necessary…! Or, maybe it was; the old woman seems pleased enough with it. “This may surprise you, dear, but I _do_ recall what it is to be _young_ \- and that my time for it has passed. I confess, I am a bit tired.”

“You’re tired…?” The concern in his voice is terribly apparent, and genuine, too; in Keller’s book, that makes him one of two things: a damn good liar, or a bleeding _sap_. At this point, he can’t settle on which. “Then, we should go back.”

She grins, Marie-Hélène - all coy and ladylike. It’s what anyone would expect - anyone who _didn’t_ already suspect a spot of unsavory business between them. “ _I_ should go back, you mean.”

“No, not at all; _we_ …”

“ _I_ am the one who’s _tired_ , Noël; _you_ still have youth - full of life, and _energy_ . _You_ ought to stay for a bit more excitement - take in the sights as much you can. We only have a few days more; France is calling.”

Stay here alone…? Take in the sights before setting off for the Old Country…? Maybe Keller has the wrong idea about these two; maybe it’s all completely aboveboard…

“Calling…? Madame, have you finally gotten yourself a cell?”

The woman smirks at that comment; to be honest, Keller would too, if he weren’t trying to appear disinterested - _not_ eavesdropping, that is. Of course, he _is_ eavesdropping and he _can’t_ afford to crack a smile, lest he be found out, but he _wants_ to. What a wisearse…

“ _Mobile_ ,” she stresses, that hint of gentle admonishment as clear as it was moments before. “Goodness, a _cell_ sounds more to do with _prison_ than a _phone_.”

“So, this _mobile_ …”

“Don’t be silly! I’ve no need for that; I’m rather fond of the fact that I can’t _always_ be reached - does something for my sense of independence.”

Noël is still grinning, but his smile has taken a slightly different form; it’s entirely cordial, but there’s a hint of suggestion in the upturned corners - _flirtation_ . And, if that weren’t enough, his tone is _laden_ with the stuff - sugary sweet, yet too damn _warm_ and _heartfelt_ to be as _cloying_ as it ought to be. It’s frustrating beyond all understanding, because Keller just _can’t_ find fault with the kid, even as he bows his head and places a clichéed kiss atop the Countess’ aged hand. He’d best get out of here soon; the sap might just be _catching_ …

“With _no_ intended offense to your independence, I hope you’ll allow _me_ to reach you.”

Ugh, that _was_ sickening...but good, and not for parlance’s sake; in that regard, the response hardly deserves to be called _cheesy_. The delivery itself - the soft rise and fall of his whisper of a voice, happened to be excellent, but that’s besides the point. The point is, Keller _felt_ a little nauseated, deep in his gut; the point of _that_ \- the _good_ part - is that the sap is evidently _not_ as contagious as he feared. Of course, there’s always a flip side to things, and this is no exception; it seems he _was_ correct in his assumptions all along. That’s bittersweet - half victory, half not; on the one hand, he can rest assured that his judgment is up to snuff, but on the other… Err, same thing; his judgment _is_ up to snuff.

“Perhaps I could do with a nightcap,” the woman replies, the wrinkles about her eyes growing more prominent as her smile reaches them. “We’ll see when you get back, provided it’s not too late.”

“It won’t be; I promise.”

“I’ll expect you, then. I might have a bit of a lie down, but I’ll be waiting; feel free to rouse me when you’re ready.” Keller is a fortunate man indeed, knowing they’re talking about going for _drinks_ \- doubly assured, as the woman continues. “I’m partial to the hotel bar, as it stands - a bit quieter than this is.” She looks about ready to leave; she’s squeezed her companion’s hand before letting it go, and has taken a small step back. But she has one last thing to say - apparently, to make sure said companion is fit for purpose. “I gave you your key…?”

Of _course_ you did; it was five _minutes_ ago! That’s what Keller, feeling decidedly impatient and most on edge, would say if she’d posed the question to _him_ , but Noël’s response is far more tactful. “You did; it’s right here.”

He doesn’t actually flash the key, no, but he _does_ pat the left side of his jacket, just over his breast - an obvious indication of where indeed he’s stored the card for safekeeping. Something about it - just _how_ obvious he made it - rubs Keller the wrong way; in a second, that uncomfortable gut feeling is back, warning him that perhaps things aren’t what they seem. It’s just as foolish as it was the first time, when Keller initially decided he had nothing to worry about - when he said there was no way his less than honorable intentions had been discovered by his mark...or, by said mark’s escort, at least. It still doesn’t deserve to give him the jitters, like it’s terribly close to doing. Clearly, the Countess is getting on in years - taken to worrying over something she might have forgotten to do, despite _doing_ it moments before; in all likelihood, this Noël is just doing his bit to kindly yet emphatically reassure her. That’s all it is - all it _can_ be; any reasonable man would say the same.

They certainly _wouldn’t_ say what Keller’s nervous gut is carrying on about - that the painfully obvious gesture, indicating precisely where Noël placed his key, was meant for _him_. That he was addressing the Countess, but in truth was baiting _him_ \- daring _him_ to pick his pocket. 

That… He honestly doesn’t know _what_ to say to that; he’d let that thought fade away, soon as it presented itself, but it’s being rather persistent. It’s _nagging_ him - insisting he open his eyes and accept it as the truth, but he tries his best to ignore it. Because it’s _ridiculous_ ; surely, no one _wants_ to be _robbed_ ...unless it’s about _insurance_ \- a potential settlement. But he doubts it is; he can’t imagine the Countess would’ve come all the way to Monaco just to lose her priceless jewelry. It’s far too much _effort_ ; there simply must be countless thieves lining up and down the streets on the home front - all ready, willing, and able to make those pieces disappear. 

No - not at all. He was right the first time, deeming the whole idea utterly ludicrous; something has let his imagination run wild, but it’s high time he reeled it back in. 

After the Countess leaves, and the train of her gown is finally through the door and out of sight, Keller does at long last gather his wits and sets a course for the now solitary escort. Well, as solitary as an honorary bloody _mayor_ can be; Noël is still floating through the crowd, dancing on air with a too-perfect smile as he strikes up shallow conversations in a variety of languages with numerous peers, leaving each one in the dust in a matter of seconds but, nonetheless, leaving them smiling just as he had been. For a brief moment, Keller wonders if he’ll be able to keep up; the kid is weaving in and out between clusters of tipsy patrons like a fox in the brush, and he’s got a pocketful of pilfered finery weighing him down. But he has confidence too, and an iron will that curiously makes him light as a feather, and he gives chase. He zigs, he zags, he flits, and he falls like fucking Fred Astaire, but he catches himself without even breaking a sweat, because his target is finally within reach; and, without a moment’s hesitation, he goes for one last lift before the curtain closes. 

With Noël’s eyes turned skyward, their owner laughing at some piss-poor joke from another piss-drunk patron, Keller pinches the room key from his inside pocket and he’s gone. He doesn’t look behind him - not to make sure Noël didn’t notice him, nor to take one last gander at his smiling face, though he doubts he’ll ever see it again. Though it...tugs at him, strangely, to think that he won’t. But he doesn’t dare look because he doesn’t _need_ to; he knows he made that grab without so much as rustling the man’s tux, and because he knows he’ll see those eyes again - if _only_ those eyes, and _only_ in his memory, where they’ve burned themselves into perpetual existence. And he can live with that - a necessary evil, as it were, haunting his steps - because he has before, and because no pretty peepers are worth him losing his head.

Because, like he said, he’s a motherfucking _professional_.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for stopping by for Chapter 2! I won't put a dreadfully long note here; I'll just reiterate this Disclaimer that I don't own White Collar or any of its canon characters. And I don't claim to know all that much about the hotel (which I also happen not to own).
> 
> Thanks much for the hit, and please enjoy!

By the time Keller reaches the Grand Hotel, it’s just gone half-ten; that may seem late, but it really isn’t - not to  _ him _ , anyway. And he wasted no time; he left the Monte Carlo the second that key card was in  _ his  _ pocket instead of Noël’s, scurried across the street separating the gambling den from the luxurious seaside resort, and here he stands. Or...sits; that’s more like it. He’s tucked away at a little table in the corner of the bar, yet another tumbler of scotch to keep him company - that, and the bow tie he was  _ very  _ quick to pull from around his neck. Thank God this place  _ is  _ more casual than the casino, as Marie-Hélène had mentioned earlier - to her companion, yes, but for him to overhear; he couldn’t take one more moment of the silk cutting off his oxygen, making the collar of his overly starched dress shirt rub uncomfortably on his skin. Again, small mercies; he’s grateful for them.

She has yet to make an appearance, the Countess - must still be in the course of her lie down, waiting for Prince Charming to awaken her. Of course, Keller hopes that won’t be necessary, and not _just_ because the thought of that pretty little _thing_ giving the near eighty-year-old Sleeping Beauty a rousing kiss brings about the most vile sort of nausea...though he must admit it does; he has unfortunately considered it. But he chooses not to consider it _further_ , because he _is_ already nauseated and he’d hate to waste a good drink on the loo - assuming he’d make it that far, if the scotch did demand to come back up his gullet. Besides, as he said, that’s not the _only_ concern he has with Noël making his rounds; if he _were_ to seek the Countess in their room...well, he’d surely find a spot of trouble with the _door_ \- that he’s lost his key again. 

Keller won’t call that an oversight on his part; there was simply no better way to further his own goals for the evening, and he’s sure he’ll think of something to keep his plans from going awry. He’s always been particularly good at improvising, if and when he must - never partial to it, but successful nonetheless. He’ll manage, same as he always has done, but he’s not enough of a defeatist to worry as yet; aside from his quick-thinking and cunning, he’s also always been profoundly  _ lucky _ .

Eh, to be fair, falling into Lady Luck’s good graces only happened in the latter part of his life - totally escaped him in the beginning, but he’s not about to look the gift horse in the mouth. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, after all, and in his experience, horses - magnificent as they may be and  _ are  _ \- have the most inexplicably  _ foul  _ breath. You’d think they wouldn’t - that a diet composed of grains and hay would render their scent  _ earthy _ , at worst...but evidently not. Not that  _ he’s  _ seen, anyway...but he may be a tad biased. He’s hardly a nature-lover; in all honesty, it’s quite possible he simply can’t tell the difference between a pile of  _ earth  _ and a pile of  _ shit _ . 

And he’s not the only one; fucking  _ roaches  _ can’t seem to distinguish the two either, and he’s been accused, by a distant one night stand, of sharing in a sort of brotherhood with the vermin of the dung heap. A woman scorned - Hell hath no fury like it  _ indeed _ …

Shame; she was such a lovely girl.

He sighs, but not for that. He left that behind a long time ago, same as the select few other women he’d unhappily bumped into - again, lovely girls - after he’d seen them out of his bedroom in the morning and tossed the number they’d left on his bedside table. He’d hoped - every time, he  _ continues  _ to hope - there wouldn’t even  _ be  _ a number, or a sappy little  _ note _ , or  _ anything  _ besides the faint smell of perfume, and alcohol, and sex on his sheets that he’d have to fucking  _ bleach  _ to wash out… Or throw away and buy anew; after a couple rounds of thorough cleaning, the linen itself starts to break down. But that doesn’t matter - not the issue; there shouldn’t  _ be  _ anything else, because he’s not the sort of man who deserves it. He thought he always made that clear - he  _ tried  _ to, and he thought those women understood; if he’d had any doubts, he’d never have taken them home. 

But women are baffling - truly, life’s greatest mysteries lie within their dainty little heads; it’s an unfortunate truth he’s had to, at long last, accept in full. So, on the rare occasion that he does encounter one such woman, who’s quite beside herself and hurls the most unpleasant and explicit of insults at his person, all he can do is tip his hat and affirm she’s entirely right: “Darlin’, I ain’t never fucked my mother or sucked a cock, but I  _ am _ a lousy dog.” 

And that’s always worked. More often than not, his cheek stings for a good half hour, and sometimes there’s a bit of spit on his shoes, but hey, they turn around and stalk off, never to bother him again - couldn’t ask for more!

As far as  _ that _ goes, of course; as he continues to sit, trying desperately to  _ not  _ down the remainder of his whiskey in one fell swoop, as is awfully appealing, he  _ would  _ ask the Countess and her companion to  _ please _ get a move on. This is his  _ fourth  _ drink of the night, he doesn’t want  _ another  _ one, but if it takes much longer, he won’t have much  _ choice _ \- will  _ have  _ to mosey back on over to the bar for a top off, lest anyone start to wonder why he  _ is  _ sitting here as is. He’s a patient man, Keller, when need dictates, but that virtue is starting to wear thin, and plying himself with increasing amounts of alcohol isn’t going to help. He doesn’t expect it to - doesn’t  _ want  _ it to; what he  _ wants _ is to get the Hell out of this place, and with the makings of a tidy sum to set him up for years to come. He’s tired of waiting, and he shouldn’t have to; Noël said he wouldn’t be long. Is it entirely too much to ask for him to have  _ meant  _ that, when he did say it…?

Keller doesn’t think so.

And it, by the grace of God, looks like it indeed isn’t. A set of heels clicks in the distance, and he subtly glances in their direction - just as he has for every set of similar taps since he’d arrived. Now, all other instances have been disappointments - women  _ besides  _ Marie-Hélène striding in - but this time, it’s the real deal; the Countess, at terribly long last, graces the bar with her presence. He’d be thankful  _ just  _ for that, seeing as his arse is on the verge of going completely numb in the chair, but there’s  _ more _ ...or, really,  _ less _ ; the jewelry she was wearing at the casino is nowhere to be seen.  _ None _ of it is, upon inspection; sure, the fact that he can see her prominent sternum attests to her bulky necklace’s absence, but looking closer marks the other pieces as the same. The little bits of sparkle about her ears and wrists and hands are nothing like the ones owed to the heirloom stones she had before; these are far more modest - casual, even - and those others…? Devoid of them as she is, the Countess must have left them in her room.

As she should have - right where he wants them.

Keller has half a mind to head up there right this instant, wasting no further time, but he contains himself - waits a little longer, though it  _ pains  _ him, for the lady to acquire some  _ company _ . Particular company, that is; he’s waiting for Noël to join her, whenever he does manage to extricate himself from the bright lights of the Monte Carlo - an easy task for himself, contrary dog that he is, but decidedly less so for the majority of people. Noël is clearly no exception, and the casino is probably glad for it; those lights might just be a little less  _ bright  _ without his unnatural eyes to bolster them. 

He shakes his head, a shiver creeping up his spine; it’s best not to go down that road again, thinking of those eyes. They’re haunting enough. But he  _ doesn’t  _ go down that unmerry lane and  _ still  _ the shivering won’t quite subside; he’d be frustrated but for the sense that his uneasiness’ root cause is a few meters away, at best. That at least assures him it isn’t his  _ fault _ , and another glance upwards, towards Madame de Troigny, confirms his suspicions; Noël has arrived.

As though he  _ needed  _ to look; the bar’s gone strangely quiet, conversations all trailing off into whispers. He’s pretty sure one of such whispers was a hushed, “Ces  _ yeux _ …” and another, from a different source, “Quella  _ faccia _ …”

Yeah, yeah, yeah; all  _ right _ ! Those  _ eyes _ , that  _ face _ … He’s beautiful, he’s stunning, he’s Helen of Troy’s long-lost twin brother; he  _ knows _ .  _ Everyone  _ knows, Noël  _ included _ ; there’s simply no need to remind him by swooning every time he walks through a damn  _ door _ . Bloody  _ stupefied  _ is a  _ ridiculous  _ look on these high-and-mighty rich folk, and especially on the  _ men  _ \- those who, after noticing their wives, girlfriends, or otherwise unspecified arm candy look away, want to be jealous, angry, and/or disdainful but apparently just can’t  _ manage  _ it because they’re soon enough too busy  _ staring  _ themselves. It takes all the willpower Keller has in him not to knock their slackened jaws back into place as he passes a few oglers on his way out; it’d surely be the  _ decent  _ thing to do, and they’d thank him later for the reminder that they’re  _ human _ , not bloody  _ fish _ , but it  _ would _ draw a fair bit of unwanted attention his way. 

It’d probably draw Noël’s attention, in fact;  _ that _ , he can do without. If nothing else, he’d risk blowing his cover.

Of course, all the eyes on Noël does help him; it makes it impossible for anyone to notice him slipping out of the bar en route to the Countess’ room. As he walks that route, careful to keep his head down in the event a camera might spot him, he tries to fend off the worry in his bones - the little voice telling him this is entirely too easy. He’s not complaining by any means, ever grateful for a chance to score a cool million or two without breaking a sweat, but he can’t shake the feeling that something is amiss...yet similarly can’t name precisely  _ what  _ is gnawing at him. Nothing looks the least bit out of place; there are a few guests wandering here and there, though none at all when he reaches the third floor, and he knows he isn’t being followed. The floors are stone; if someone were tailing him, he’d  _ hear  _ them - hear their footsteps down the hall, no matter how carefully they  _ did  _ step. 

No - no doubt about it; he’s  _ alone _ ...and he’s still unfathomably  _ nervous _ .

The key unlocks the door normally enough, granting him entry; for some reason, he’d have been less surprised if alarms sounded and a dozen able-bodied men leapt from the shadows and tackled him. Or if the door itself burst into flames; that’d be a new one, and mighty inconvenient, but it’s still a thought he entertains as he strolls inside and softly latches the innocuous barrier behind him. 

The room is...well, like the damn door; it’s innocuous, but somehow it just doesn’t  _ fit _ . It’s  _ small _ , for one; that’s not too unusual, given the Countess’ monetary constraints - or, what he’s heard of them - but to be frank, the dimensions within these four walls isn’t what first caught his eye. It’s the bed, and more to the point, the bed _ s _ \-  _ plural _ . As in, not for  _ sharing _ . Now, maybe that’s nothing; maybe this was the last room available, or maybe the old lady prefers a bit of space at her disposal. He wouldn’t know - wouldn’t  _ like _ to, honestly - but he must admit it’s  _ curious _ . So is, as he looks further, the score he’s come to collect - the heirloom jewels sitting pretty on the vanity, all laid out like they’re on display. Sure, he’d never suggest they should be arrayed any different - pure sacrilege, that - but the sight of them gives new life to that feeling he had earlier, when his eyes were trained on Noël at the casino. 

When he got the uncanny sense that it was all a  _ show  _ \- and a show meant  _ specifically  _ for  _ his _ viewing pleasure. 

God, he’s jumpy - best get  _ this _ over with before his nerves drive  _ him _ over the side of the terrace…

Speaking of the terrace, there’s a bit of a draft. It’s warm - it would be, given it’s the first week of August - but unwelcome; to put it simply, anything the least bit out of the ordinary is the very  _ last  _ thing he needs right now, and he turns an accusatory eye to the glass doors. And promptly discovers why it  _ is  _ so very breezy in here; one of those doors is ajar. But there’s nothing on the other side that he can see - nothing beyond the table and chairs the hotel provides and has the audacity to call a  _ lounge _ ; there’s nothing that  _ shouldn’t  _ be there. Certainly nothing that should be riling him the way he  _ is  _ riled; for God’s sake, Marie-Hélène probably wanted a spot of fresh air before diving headfirst into the cloud of stale perfume and inflated egos for the  _ second _ time that night. He can’t begrudge her  _ that _ ; he’d do the same thing - arguably  _ will _ , once his work here is done and he’s free to light a well-deserved cigarette on his  _ own  _ balcony. 

That idea is so very appealing that it sees him dismiss his ridiculous concerns almost at once; with a roll of his eyes, a mental admonishment, and a renewed devotion to keeping his wits about him, Keller turns back to the vanity - to the million-dollar stones - and steps forward. They’re truly something else, even in the darkness of the room; the moon overhead, trickling in through the gauzy curtains, is enough to see the gems sparkle and the settings shine. He reaches out, his hand all but ghosting over the necklace at center - a brilliant piece like no other he’s yet seen, let alone stolen - and wills himself to pick it up...but something holds him back. Perhaps it’s that worry again, that this is too easy - that he shouldn’t be able to pocket these bits of timeless elegance without  _ some  _ kind of effort, beyond that which he exerted in mingling with the upper crust without strangling anyone, including himself, with an infuriatingly  _ dandy  _ black tie. That was a Herculean feat, in a class all its own, but decidedly not impressive  _ enough _ for how terribly on edge he remains. 

He blames the sea air; his iron will is starting to rust. 

But that won’t matter - not when he’s homeward bound in the  _ first _ class section of the  _ first  _ train leaving Monaco come morning. With this kind of bounty, he’ll have more than enough time and money to polish off the tarnish at his leisure. And so, he decides to start buffing out the scratches at present; his hand closes around the necklace, carefully lifting it from its resting place. He’ll do the same with the other pieces; they’ll fit well enough in his pockets for the time being...but as soon as that thought strikes him, it’s gone. Another takes its place, and this one more  _ sensory  _ in nature; his ears twitch, a soft voice floating past them from over his shoulder.

“Do you like those…?”

No  _ fucking  _ way…

Keller goes rigid in an instant, eyes set in a hard line as he turns  _ slowly  _ to face the intruder -  _ so  _ slowly that he can practically hear his bones creak like an antique door. Not that he  _ had  _ to turn around; he knows exactly who it is - the deep pitch of that whispering tone unmistakable. It’s just… It’s unbelievable,  _ truly _ \- un- _ fucking _ -believable…! An easy gaze stares back at him, as though this bloody  _ idiot  _ doesn’t realize what’s going on here - that he’s being  _ robbed _ , and that his  _ best  _ chances lie in keeping his pretty trap  _ shut _ , unless he means to beg for his life. Now, Keller hopes he won’t; he hopes the kid won’t blubber and cry and do all sorts of  _ pathetic  _ things to save his skin, now that he’s discovered him in the midst of what  _ ought to  _ have been a simple breaking and entering. For one thing, he’s no patience for waterworks, even if it is  _ those  _ crystalline pools turning them on, and for another...it’d be  _ useless _ . 

Maybe not  _ useless _ ; that’s not quite right. It’d be  _ unnecessary _ , because hurting someone like  _ that  _ \-  _ destroying  _ a masterpiece as bright and breathtakingly  _ beautiful  _ as _ Noël _ …? There’s gotta be a special circle in Hell  _ just  _ for it - a  _ sin  _ not even the  _ Pope _ could absolve.

And a  _ stain  _ he could never wash out.

But, though he is resolved to do no harm, Keller must admit this is  _ terribly  _ inconvenient. Even with his throat as dry as it is, he makes that very clear. “You...shouldn’t  _ be  _ here.”

He thought it was clear, but perhaps not; Noël acts like he didn’t so much as hear him, smiling faintly, and faintly  _ only  _ because the poor lighting makes it difficult to distinguish his features. “I thought you would. Who  _ wouldn’t _ …? They’re  _ stunning  _ \- quality work, there…”

“ _ How  _ did you get in?”

Aha! A question does the trick; Noël doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned, but at least he’s acknowledging him. “The  _ door _ , same as you.” He sighs, but lightly - almost like he’s  _ laughing _ , or wants to. It’s...strange - near unnerving, actually, but Keller stands pat, waiting for him to continue. “You took the stairs; I chose the elevator - got here first. I was on the balcony when I heard you come in. I know, I… I should’ve introduced myself right away; that was rude of me, but…” He chuckles -  _ actually  _ does it, this time; little  _ brat _ …! “...but you were so  _ focused _ . I figured I’d let you have a moment.”

Well, Keller can say one thing; that was  _ not  _ the response he was expecting - would expect from anyone about to be divested of their valuables...but he may be jumping the gun. These jewels, after all, are not strictly Noël’s - not his to  _ any  _ extent, in fact. They’re the Countess’ - his... _ client’s _ \- and taking that into consideration, a plan occurs to him; he just may be able to turn this awkward situation into something fulfilling. He may  _ still  _ be able to make that next train.

But he’s all for sticking with his  _ original  _ plan, until necessity instructs him otherwise; that one is  _ more  _ fulfilling. “Guess that means I should  _ thank  _ you.”

Noël laughs again, shaking his head. “Not at all, though you’re welcome.”

“Nah, I _should_ , ‘cuz that _moment_ ya let me ‘ave…? I’m gonna be havin’ a lot _more_ just like it.” He maintains his gaze, all but impassive, but the corners of his mouth twitch into a smirk; somehow, Noël looks like he’s been caught a bit off guard. That’s a first he’ll _relish_. “ _Lemme_ thank ya, ‘cuz ‘ere’s how it’s gonna go; _I’m_ gonna walk out that door, and _you’re_ gonna forget we ever did ‘ave this conversation. And the _jewels_ …? Heh - finders, keepers; they’re comin’ with me.”

“You mean, you’ll  _ steal  _ them?”

Why is that a  _ question _ ? Keller can’t figure it out, but he shrugs nonetheless. “It don’ gotta sound so  _ ugly _ \- ain’t  _ stealin _ ’ if ya  _ let  _ me.”

Noël narrows his eyes - in what  _ should  _ be disapproval, but looks far more like  _ jest _ . Again, he can’t figure it - figure  _ him  _ out. “And if I  _ don’t _ …?”

“Eh, call it stealin’, then.”

“What if I were to try and stop you?”

He wants to wince, Keller does; Noël’s eyes are burning through his own, but it seems they’ve burned off a bit of that tarnish he mentioned before - the one about his nerve. That sees him through - keeps his tone level. “Guess it’ll  _ be  _ ugly.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want  _ that _ …”

God, something is  _ off  _ in this guy’s head - some kind of disconnect between his frontal lobe and whatever part of the brain is  _ supposed  _ to keep it in check, when  _ fear  _ ought to take the reins. It’s true that he’s  _ young _ \- can’t be more than 18, 19 at  _ best _ ; Keller has heard, likely from the mouths of the ubiquitous “ _ they _ ,” that said frontal lobe doesn’t fully develop until the early to mid twenties, and thus neither does impulse control. Perhaps that accounts for Noël’s blatant refusal to be intimidated, his similar distaste for casting off that unwavering  _ smile _ , and his casually taking a step forward so that his whisper of a response would undoubtedly reach Keller’s ears. A part of him - a minuscule part, too, to which he’d never really cater - wants to slap that perfect face  _ just  _ to remind the man who wears it that he is indeed playing with  _ fire _ ...but it’s as he said; he’d never follow through with that on a whim. 

Pity; he’s becoming increasingly in the mood to slap  _ something _ …

“No, we  _ wouldn’t _ .” But if it’s not going to be Noël in his crosshairs, it might as well not be anyone. Besides, he’s leaning towards Plan B at the moment, and that’s something he should put  _ delicately _ , for the best chance at success. “Look, it don’ need to be complicated; ya seem like a nice kid, an’ clever enough. Scratch my back, an’ I ain’t got no problem scratchin’ yours. I’ll give ya a little  _ incentive _ \- to help me out ‘ere; call it three percent.”

“Really? Three percent?”

“Of the take,” Keller affirms, smirking in a most satisfied manner. He’d prefer not to part with  _ any  _ of his score, but he can live without this bit of it; it’s worth less than the headache to keep it. Noël must feel similarly. “Ain’t got shit for honor, but I’m a man o’ my word. Three percent, all yours.”

At first, Noël just  _ stares  _ at him - like he’s just sprouted a second  _ head _ ; at  _ first _ , Keller attributes that to pleasant surprise at the offer of an easy payday. But, as the kid  _ laughs  _ again - this time, most uncontrollably - he is forced to reconsider. Two things, really: one, if Noël  _ actually  _ feels as similarly as he ought to, and two, if the kid is  _ actually  _ off his bloody  _ rocker _ \- if he’s lost his damn  _ mind _ , or if he never had one to begin with. He supposes that might be  _ three  _ things, but it’s too late to rename his list; all he can do is match the stare and wait for the laughter to subside. Then, if Noël would be so kind, he can explain to Keller what is so fucking  _ funny _ ...and if he’s  _ not  _ so kind, at least Keller will be able to get a word in - sort of  _ prompt  _ said explanation. 

As it happens,  _ both  _ opportunities present themselves; Noël  _ does  _ speak out…

“I’m sure, but  _ three  _ percent…? That’s so  _ stingy _ …”

...and Keller is quick to probe for further detail, because  _ that  _ retort doesn’t make the  _ slightest _ bit of sense in and of itself. “ _ Stingy _ …? Little… Tch, it’s gotta be a Hell of a lot more than the  _ Countess  _ is payin’ ya for your  _ company _ .”

“Madame de Troigny?” Yes, Madame de Troigny; are there any  _ other  _ countesses relevant here…? Err, in truth, Keller is glad he doesn’t ask - wouldn’t want to be  _ enlightened  _ if there  _ were _ . “She isn’t  _ paying  _ me; we…”

“I’m ‘a stop ya right there,” Keller manages to grunt - before the bile rising in his throat manages to grace the marble floors. “Look, kid,  _ please  _ don’ try to tell me it’s true love or  _ whatever _ else. I’ve had a  _ very  _ long day, I’m  _ fuckin’  _ tired, and I ain’t in the mood for  _ bullshit _ .”

Noël blinks at him, all wide-eyed and bashful, like he really  _ has  _ been slapped. “We’re  _ working _ together.”

“ _ Semantics _ .”

“No,  _ not  _ semantics; we  _ are _ . If you’d let me  _ elaborate _ …”

“ _ Don’t  _ \-  _ please  _ don’t. I’ll give ya  _ five  _ for  _ sparin’  _ me.”

That shuts him up - thought it might. Really, Keller would have been all for trying it  _ sooner _ , if he weren’t preoccupied with trying to keep as much of the profits to himself. But to keep this kid from getting into all the nitty-gritty, gory  _ details  _ of his  _ work  _ with (or, he shudders to think,  _ on _ ) the Countess, an extra two percent is a  _ small  _ price to pay - one he  _ will  _ pay, and  _ readily _ . 

If only Noël were in a more agreeable mood. “Five? That’s  _ better _ \- still stingy, but an A for effort.”

The  _ nerve _ …! It’s actually quite refreshing, this precocious little harlot having the balls to  _ haggle  _ with him; in all 22 - soon to be 23 - of his years, Keller hasn’t come across anything like it. He almost admires him a teensy bit - would, if it weren’t a direct affront to his sense of control at a time when he’s dedicating  _ all  _ of said control to not tearing his own hair from his head. But it  _ is  _ an affront, and his restraint  _ is  _ so dedicated, thus he truly can’t help scoffing incredulously and snapping at the youth.

“ _ Five  _ is enough to keep ya outta ol’ ladies’  _ beds  _ for a  _ year _ . Maybe  _ two _ \- don’ know the goin’  _ rate  _ these days. Don’  _ wanna _ .” Noël looks a tad offended by that, and keen to protest, but Keller’s wasted enough time on him as it is; he doesn’t allow him a word. “An’ if ya doubt that, that's  _ your  _ loss - that you’re fuckin’  _ blind _ . I get it, kid; I  _ do _ \- ain’t your fault, thinkin’ all that glitters is gold, and all gold’s the same damn thing. But that’s ‘cuz  _ you  _ don’ need to know,  _ workin _ ’ guy in a cash-based world that ya are - ain’t never been told  _ different _ . Me, though, I’ll be a  _ gent  _ and break it to ya;  _ some  _ gold shines a little  _ brighter _ , and  _ this  _ set here…”

“The de Troigny heirloom collection, been in the family for generations - all the way back to the 17th century, and that’s just when they decided to write it down…” Noël smirks - a  _ devilish  _ grin, at that. It surely rivals Keller’s patented one, and he ought to sue for infringement...but he has a sense he’s to blame; he must have the most unbecomingly  _ gobsmacked  _ look on his face, else he doubts the blue-eyed devil would be  _ so  _ amused. “Or, so I’ve been  _ told _ … But you can still be a  _ gent _ .”

Keller knows he’s going to regret asking this; his topsy-turvy stomach is already  _ begging  _ him not to, but he simply cannot  _ resist _ … “Yeah…? How’s  _ that _ ?”

Noël’s smile broadens; it loses the bulk of its mock wickedness, but it hasn’t lost a  _ bit  _ of mischief. In fact,  _ that  _ unsavory quality has  _ doubled _ , if not  _ more _ , and continues to swell as he - the kid, that is - dares to take a step forward, his eyes gleaming despite the shadows in the room. That’s a light all his own; the moon has no part in it, and it’s all too inviting - takes a true show of inner strength not to lean towards it, if only to see if it’s as warm to the touch as it is to the eye. Keller is decidedly resolute; if he accomplishes nothing else at all this evening, though that would be  _ most  _ unfortunate, he can still give himself credit for not wavering - not approaching, as would be highly embarrassing, and not faltering back, which would be even more so. He simply, however far  _ from  _ simple it is, stands his ground, rooted to the very spot he chose five minutes ago, and now it’s  _ he  _ who dares  _ Noël _ \- dares him to keep walking, for he’s not going anywhere.

At least, that’s his plan; it might be a  _ bluff _ , as he can easily paint an unflattering picture of himself leaping three feet in the air were those eyes, or any  _ other  _ part of the man, to draw too close, but it’s a bluff Noël doesn’t call. Not that he has to; the sound of his voice is a fortunate  _ hair’s breadth  _ from sufficing - nearly costs him his dignity.

“By holding off.”

Yep; he definitely regrets asking. Because those three words don’t begin to explain  _ anything _ , and they beg further questions. He’ll probably regret those too. “Holdin’ off? Off o’  _ what _ , huh? - the jewels?”

“Yes.” 

What  _ is  _ it with this kid…? First he’s more than satisfied with sending them off in exchange for a cut, if  _ stingy _ , and now he’s decided against it…? Keller doubts he’s grown a conscience in the last ten seconds, but he does suppose there’s a first time for everything. And, you know, it could be one of those  _ miracles  _ everyone likes to talk about but has never witnessed; the Catholic lurking beneath the pockets of acid in his veins would demand he acknowledge that possibility, though he’s awfully partial to ignoring it. Yet his musings on his tattered faith may be entirely for naught, because Noël goes on to speak, and suddenly...it doesn’t seem like he  _ has  _ changed his mind after all. 

He hasn’t changed  _ anything _ , come to think of it; his words still boast as little logic as they have thus far, and Keller still regrets inviting them.

“Not  _ indefinitely _ , of course,” he says plainly, as if  _ that  _ were the very definition of clarification. “Just...a little longer - till tomorrow night.”

Oh no; oh no  _ indeed _ . Keller is  _ not  _ waiting until tomorrow  _ night _ ; his train - the one he’s been dreaming about hopping since the day he  _ arrived  _ in this God-forsaken place - leaves in the  _ morning _ . He doesn’t expect the kid to understand that particular motivation, but he makes sure the sharp tone of his voice leaves no room for doubt as to his intentions for  _ this  _ evening. 

“ _ Kid _ ,” he snaps, full of exasperation and a spot of  _ contempt _ . “I don’ know what the  _ fuck  _ you’re playin’ at, an’ frankly, I don’  _ care _ . But I am  _ not  _ walkin’ outta here with anythin’  _ less  _ than what I came for. If you think I’m gonna let this collection sit here  _ one  _ more day, gatherin’  _ dust _ , when it’s worth…”

“Millions…?” Noël interrupts him - and it’s a whole different breed of  _ annoying _ \- but Keller is admittedly too tired,  _ weary  _ of this nonsensical back-and-forth, to actually put a stop to it. “These pieces, together, are worth millions -  _ three _ , conservatively…”

That’s true, but he’s smirking again - little imp crawling out of time-out to try his patience once more. This time, though, he has to listen, what with being too thoroughly exhausted to do otherwise...and with a sneaking suspicion that he’d better do the very thing. Because he’s uneasy again, just as he has been on and off since lifting that card key; something is  _ wrong _ . And, as Noël  _ does  _ finally complete his thought, he realizes  _ exactly  _ what that is.

“Well, they  _ would  _ be...if they were  _ real _ .”

Beg your pardon…? Come again…? Nothing quite hits the spot like “What the  _ fuck _ …?” but Keller is too taken aback to manage even  _ that _ . Actually, he produces very little sound at all - just about chokes on his own tongue. And, all things considered, that makes perfect sense; he is  _ seriously  _ allergic to  _ fakes _ \- particularly those that have already gained his attention whilst claiming complete authenticity. Like  _ these  _ alleged fakes; the dim light in his eyes - even the fatigue etched into his face… Suddenly, they  _ both  _ start to die out, and die a quick death at that. Normally, he wouldn’t take a man’s word for it; he’d brush off that declaration as nothing more than conjecture - a last-ditch attempt to send him on his way without having burgled a damn thing. But these circumstances  _ aren’t  _ normal; Noël, standing before him with the barest traces of compassion along the edges of his shit-eating grin, isn’t normal by any measures, and somehow that equates to one thing: he’s telling the  _ truth _ .

Keller drops the necklace without the least bit of ceremony; he needs that hand to scratch at the side of his nose - the only thing he  _ can  _ do before the shock to his system wears off and he can croak out, “ _ What _ …?”

“They  _ would  _ be worth millions; the  _ real  _ heirlooms  _ are _ ...but these aren’t. You’re looking at...eh, couple grand, give or take.” He croaks something else out, Keller does - probably would be along the same lines as the first, if it were at all intelligible. But it isn’t, though it might be to Noël; his eyes flash the utmost sympathy as he continues - on a totally unrelated front. “Would you like a drink…?”

Mind-reader, this one…! But no, Keller does  _ not  _ want a damn  _ drink _ \- not  _ here _ , anyway; he’d  _ much  _ prefer to drown his sorrows in complete  _ solitude _ . “A  _ drink _ ?”

“Well, you’re clearly disappointed; I thought it might take your mind off it...and besides, it’s only  _ polite _ that I  _ offer _ , seeing as I  _ invited  _ you up here.”

Well  _ damn _ ; he should’ve listened to his gut after all - seems Noël indeed  _ did  _ make a deliberate show of planting his key card, and did so to bait him. He also should’ve had that fifth scotch in the bar when he had the chance - nothing like a little alcohol to shed some light on a confusing situation. And whatever else it  _ is _ Noël’s graciously offered to provide, Keller doesn’t want it. What he  _ wants  _ from him is an explanation, and that won’t fit in a  _ glass _ \- doubts a bottle could encapsulate it either…

But the air in this room will suffice; it’s spacious enough for that, and Keller sets about drawing said explanation out into the open. He even manages to keep his eyes narrowed and his voice totally flat as he does so, though he must admit the lack of  _ light  _ surely helps; Noël has stepped into the shadows, and in doing so his enchanting smile - both on his face and in his  _ eyes  _ \- has faded.

“ _ Invited  _ me, huh? Invited me for  _ what _ ?”

Not faded enough; as he chuckles, an immaculately white set of canines flashes in the dark. “To  _ talk _ \-  _ business _ , of course.”

Keller doesn’t like the sound of that. “What  _ kind _ of  _ business _ ?”

“A venture - mutually agreeable.”

He doesn’t like  _ that  _ either… “I doubt you an’ I have anythin’ in  _ common _ .”

“Don’t sell yourself...short,” comes the reply, riding the coattails of an airy laugh. It irks Keller to fathom  _ why  _ this plucky punk  _ did  _ laugh, but he keeps it together so as not to interrupt; he’s still after that explanation, after all. “I’m sure we do. I could tell, soon as I saw you; you’re a kindred spirit - a  _ hustler _ .”

Holy Christ, he  _ really  _ doesn’t like  _ that _ ; that’s three for three - and, if you count that not-so-subtle jab at his  _ height _ (or, unfortunately, his lack thereof), it’s four for  _ four _ …! And  _ the  _ third, or fourth, or whatever you want to call Noël’s  _ final  _ note, is  _ astoundingly _ offensive; the fact that the idea is entirely  _ ludicrous  _ just  _ barely  _ keeps his blood from bursting through his pores like a thousand fiery plumes that’d put Old fucking Faithful to  _ shame _ ! Fury breaks through the dullness typically adorning his eyes as he rounds on Noël with an aggressive stride forward, growling deep in his throat.

“You better  _ watch  _ it, kid; them’s  _ fightin’  _ words.”

Noël starts a bit - would be an exhilarating thing to regard, seeing as it’s the first time he’s been caught _this_ unawares, if Keller weren’t about to strangle him - and falters back. He waves his hands defensively, as though he can similarly wave away the _insult_ he’s just inflicted. He _can’t_ , of course, but he’s quick to rally words to his cause - so quick that Keller’s hand doesn’t have time to close around his neck, let alone _squeeze_. Now, that _is_ disappointing… Keller recalls the special circle of Hell, and the sin, and the stain; of course he does, but… Well, he only wants to shut him up for a _little_ _while_ \- feels like it’s worth taking his chances, and wouldn’t _entirely_ tempt fate.

“E-Easy…! I’m just saying you’re a  _ grifter _ , not a…” He doesn’t complete that thought, but probably because he can see he doesn’t have to; Keller has once again drawn back, hands safely at his sides. By the time he catches his breath, Noël has moved on. “That’s not  _ wrong _ . You  _ are _ , aren’t you? - a  _ con _ …?”

Con? As in...conman? - that what the kids are calling it these days? Keller’s first inclination is to deny that; that’s not strictly the case - not how he’d describe himself. And he doesn’t describe himself as such, as it happens; he  _ airs  _ that inclination.

“What’s it  _ look  _ like?” he huffs, scratching at his nose again. 

“I’ve just said; it  _ looks  _ like you’re a  _ con _ .”

“And you’re a  _ pro _ …” Noël bristles; he must have heard that, however mumbled it was. But Keller can’t find it in him to care; he’s  _ still  _ tired, and now, apparently,  _ this  _ whole venture is an exercise in futility. He has no interest in pursuing  _ another  _ one, as far as this kid is concerned. “A  _ con,  _ though… That’s what ya see in me? Really?”

“Really.”

“Then you’d better get your eyes checked, ‘cuz they ain’t workin’.” He huffs again, this time at the little shake of Noël’s head - the disbelief in his stare. He’d  _ better  _ believe it; it’s the damn  _ truth _ . “I’m no  _ conman _ , sweetheart; I’m a  _ thief _ \- been called worse, but more o’ the same. And ain’t never been accused o’ no fuckin’ bells an’ whistles...or  _ charm _ ; that righ’ there’s  _ your  _ stock in trade, not  _ mine _ .”

“I disagree.”

“An’ I don’  _ care _ , do I…? Nah, don’ remember askin’ your  _ opinion _ .” He’s right on all counts; he’s not a conman, and he  _ didn’t  _ ask for input...so, why exactly does he feel the need to explain himself? - to this brat? He doesn’t  _ know _ , but it doesn’t stop him. “Look, pretty boy like you, maybe you don’ gotta  _ work _ for nothin’; same as you’re doin’  _ now _ , jus’ bat your eyes…”

“I’m  _ blinking _ .”

“You’re  _ battin’  _ your eyes ‘cuz ya think that’s all it ever takes - that there ain’t a man or woman alive who won’t come runnin’, throwin’ their finest finery or whatever else it is you  _ want  _ at your feet. And ya know, I bet it always has worked out tha’ way - for  _ you _ . But I ain’t  _ you _ , am I? - ain’t got no pretty lashes to flutter, or a line of ol’ biddies beggin’ me to  _ bid  _ ‘em  _ somethin’ _ . Guys like me, we don’  _ entice _ ; we don’  _ ask _ . We  _ take _ .  _ I  _ take, an’ no one fuckin’  _ thanks  _ me; it’s the way o’ the world.”

“The way of the world…” Noël murmurs, a wistful gleam in his eyes; somehow, they’re even _glassier_ than the apparently fake jewels are, or must be. “Funny you mention that; I didn’t think you’d be the kind of guy who’d let the world put him in a neat little _box_.” A new breed of glimmer cuts through the glass, then - bright, and sharp like bloody _diamonds_ ; it’s _as_ bright as his smile...and as sharp as his sassy tone. “You _surprise_ me, Mr. _Keller_.”

It’s terribly unbecoming, but the sound of his own name stops his heart; he can  _ feel  _ it writhing in his chest, trying desperately to pump again, lest he collapse. But it’s having trouble;  _ he’s  _ having trouble commanding it...and he can’t say why. It shouldn’t be like this;  _ he  _ shouldn’t be. That name means  _ nothing  _ to him; it  _ can’t _ , else he’d have tried to disguise it years ago, and he never has. Noël could have picked it up - wheedled it out of any bartender that’s had the pleasure of providing his drinks, or some other equally loose-lipped member of staff; those  _ eyes  _ and that  _ face  _ everyone is so very quick to compliment would’ve made it  _ easy _ . But there’s no sort of rational explanation to his fretting; he can feel that as sure as he feels the cold sweat in his palms. It doesn’t matter how he came across his name - not even  _ that  _ he’s come across it; what matters is how Keller  _ responds _ , and at the moment, he’s making a right mess of it.

But that’ll change, and quickly, too, because he’s a  _ professional _ ; it’ll take a whole Hell of a lot more than a high-class  _ hooker  _ to rattle him. 

“Think you’re clever?” he asks - nonchalant, but taking a step forward.

When Noël fails to take one in reverse, he’s honestly not sure if he’s disappointed - that his attempt at intimidation has failed...or impressed, all the same. “A little, I’d like to think.”

However he  _ is  _ feeling isn’t actually important; he’ll still have to try a bit harder - make up for lost ground and then some. “I’m sure.”

Noël is still holding his ground - still  _ refusing  _ to abandon that carefree  _ smirk  _ playing at his lips - even as Keller steps closer. It’s like… God, like he has no _ idea _ … “Good. Maybe we can  _ talk _ , now that  _ that’s  _ settled…”

No  _ fucking  _ idea at  _ all _ … Well, one thing  _ is  _ settled; Keller will have to  _ give  _ him one.

“ _ Is  _ it, though…? See, I don’ think so…”

He’s on him in an instant,  _ if  _ that; his hand flies from his side and latches onto Noël’s arm, nails digging into the sleeve of his tuxedo. At first, that’s  _ all  _ he grasps, the  _ jacket _ ; it takes another split second before Keller can actually feel a limb within his grip, but the adjustment was made so very fast indeed that he doubts Noël even noticed. He almost didn’t...were it not for understanding why it was necessary. There’s  _ nothing  _ to the kid - nothing apart from skin and bone, and so he’s not at all surprised by just how easy it is for the few paces worth of space between them to fall away as he tugs him forward. In truth, he would loosen the hold after that, for fear of doing some measurable damage - might snap his humerus...and that, excuse the pun, wouldn’t be the least bit amusing. But he can’t let up because he needs to make a point - plant that elusive idea in Noël’s head that there  _ is  _ an imbalance of power here, and that it’s swayed to his side. He needs him to  _ know _ \- make it absolutely, one hundred percent  _ clear  _ \- that he  _ can  _ hurt him, as easily as he’d snap a twig.

And, as Noël still meets his gaze - big blue eyes wide but not afraid, and fragile form not having the decency to tremble - Keller knows he has to make it equally clear that not only  _ can  _ he hurt him, but that he  _ will _ .

Even though...he really  _ won’t _ \- even though the thought of it makes him bloody  _ sick _ .

“You listen to me, and you listen  _ good _ ,” he hisses, acid dripping from every word. In the moment, caught up in Noël’s unwavering eyes, he doesn’t even notice his makeshift accent slipping, breaking to pieces about his  _ natural  _ one - a drawl from the hills of Moray with a  _ sprinkling  _ of rubbish from London’s shoddiest  _ gutters _ . It’s good he doesn’t notice - been awhile, and...not the kind of thing he’d like to recall. “I don’ know what you’ve dreamed up in tha’ head o’ yours, an’ I don’ give a  _ damn _ \- so long’s you know I ain’t fuckin’  _ buyin _ ’. You think you’re damn  _ sweet _ , pretty as a picture...an’ you bloody well  _ are _ , but don’ you go wastin’ your charms on  _ me _ \- tryna tout some kind o’  _ shite _ …” He glares, tightening his hold for emphasis alone, and pulls Noël down enough so that his face is  _ just  _ below his own - to  _ snarl  _ directly into it. “‘Cuz you’ll not be ‘avin’  _ me _ on - ‘cuz I’ve been abou’ too long  _ not  _ to recognize a  _ snake  _ when I see one.”

In the wake of his little rant - just as Keller, having realized his pitch is betraying entirely too much, constructs a new set of walls around his tone - Noël raises a hand to rest on his arm. But gently - too gently. He’s not struggling, he’s not shaking...he’s still not bloody  _ terrified  _ like he ought to be - not even a little _ nervous _ . Instead, his smirk only broadens, as though it  _ could  _ \- unbelievable.  _ Absolutely  _ so. This kid isn’t fucking  _ ballsy _ ; he’s fucking  _ insane _ \- or, at  _ least _ , his fight or flight response is entirely  _ un _ responsive…! And the most  _ eerie  _ thing about it is that he’s  _ not  _ stone cold; his eyes are nothing less than fiery -  _ delighted _ , even...and his voice, though hardly beyond a whisper, is uncomfortably  _ warm _ …

And infuriatingly  _ smooth  _ \-  _ confident _ … That too. That’s what makes it so damn  _ enticing _ .

“See…? We  _ do  _ have something _ in common _ …”

By God, he’s actually made a  _ point _ …! And look, there goes Christ again - but not on his bike; he’s traded it in for a swanky new  _ Vespa _ ! Well, can’t begrudge him that; it  _ is  _ Monaco, after all…

But he’ll be damned if he acknowledges it - the  _ point _ , of course. Although...Keller thinks he’s already  _ been  _ damned - at least, well within the throes - because he may not verbally give Noël any credit, but he  _ does  _ back off. Or...he figures as much; he was a bit distracted, what with the Savior passing by, but he can see the kid’s further away than he was, and that he’s rubbing at his arm. But almost  _ idly _ \- more like he’s straightening his sleeve than comforting the budding bruises beneath it; he’s still got that smile...and those entirely too  _ eager  _ eyes. Keller knows he’d do well to meet that gaze, to show  _ he’s  _ not intimidated - just like Noël clearly isn’t - but he can’t. His nerve, rusting once again, fails him and he looks away.

“What do you  _ want  _ from me?”

“Just what I said - to  _ talk _ .  _ Business _ .” Sure, Noël did say that all right, but he never cared to elaborate. From the looks of things, he still doesn’t. “Thought that’d be obvious.”

“It ain’t.”

“Okay, well… In that case, I’ll rephrase; I want to  _ work  _ together.”

Work together…? Has he lost his damn mind? No, he’d best not ask that; it’s already perfectly clear that he  _ has _ \- been that way since they embarked on this cagey conversation of a venture. Really, though, Keller’s the only one who’s  _ ventured  _ at all; he’s the one who’s  _ ruffled _ , though he hopes that’s not too apparent, whereas Noël’s just been riding on a cloud alongside during the trek.  _ Keller  _ is the only one who’s  _ tired  _ \- of  _ all this _ ...but that doesn’t mean he’s quite ready to throw in the towel. Far from it.

“In  _ that  _ case,” he replies flatly, save for the hint of mockery in his tone. “I’ll have to disappoint ya; I work alone.”

Noël’s eyes shift a bit - flash some kind of watery gleam...but he doesn’t look at all disappointed. That _is_ discouraging. “I respect that; so do I. Usually. But not when I’m given some _compelling_ motivation.” He chuckles, _again_ \- Keller’s lost count of how many times that makes - but this one’s different; it’s still airy, but…somehow, it’s also _sinister_. “Seeing as we have so much _in_ _common_ , I figured it’d be the same for you.”

“In common or  _ not _ , you  _ figured  _ wrong; ain’t my nature to trust.”

“I’m sorry, was I asking you to trust me…? I didn’t mean to.” Keller can’t help shooting him a disapproving glare at that, and an incredulous one too; he even rolls his eyes and scoffs. Yet Noël is ever unfazed, however he sighs; clearly, he still thinks he’s bloody  _ won _ . “I  _ don’t _ mean to.  _ Don’t  _ trust me, but do me one favor; tomorrow night, visit the Monte Carlo again.”

“I’m a busy man,” he snaps, digging his heel into the floor as he turns on it. He’s done with this; he’s walking out of here right this instant, albeit without the score that’d drawn him in. It’s what he  _ should  _ do - should have  _ earlier _ … But of course, that’s probably why he  _ doesn’t _ \- why he stops, halfway to the door, and groans out one last question. “ _ Why _ ?”

“To  _ watch _ .”

Damn, looks like there’ll be another question after all. Again,  _ damn _ ...but fuck it. “Watch  _ what _ ?”

He doesn’t turn around to face the smug grin on Noël’s lips, but he doesn’t have to; he can feel it creeping over him - those eyes, twinkling in the moonlight, burning through his jacket. Through his fucking  _ skin _ .

“ _ Watch _ , and you’ll  _ see _ .” Keller wants to hiss that he doesn’t like surprises - that he won’t go waltzing into one - yet his voice is far away, trapped somewhere entirely unreachable in the depths of his throat. He says nothing. “And then, when you change your mind…”

“ _ If _ .” Oh good, there’s his elusive voice now - fresh from a jailbreak! Its timing is impeccable. “ _ If  _ I change my mind.”

Maybe it wasn’t impeccable; maybe it should’ve risen sooner. Noël altogether ignores it, picking up right where he trailed off - where he  _ let  _ himself be interrupted. “...I’ll be waiting; come find me.”

Like the coward it is, Keller’s voice turns tail and retreats  _ back  _ into the comfort of his chest - or would, if it didn’t butt heads with his beating heart on its descent. That’s actually lucky, he must admit; first and foremost, in its haste, it very nearly leapt down his windpipe - would’ve been awkward indeed, choking and sputtering on someone  _ else’s  _ words. And secondly, you know, if his  _ own  _ words hadn’t collided with that uncomfortable mass in his throat, he doubts he’d have been able to force them out into the air where they belong. He probably - more than probably - couldn’t have muttered…

“Tch, don’t wait  _ up _ .”

And it’s good he did mutter that, even if he does stalk out of the room the very next second; he reckons he’s saved about as much face as there was left to _be_ saved. It’s a fleeting consolation, though, because it’s hardly a _speck_ of nerve that he’s held, and Noël has held decidedly more. He continues to hold it - that unfettered _gall_ \- because _that_ Keller hasn’t yet managed to leave behind, nor the laughing eyes that flaunt it. They follow him, drifting through the walls like a damn _ghost_ haunting his steps as he takes them - too quickly, too infuriatingly unnerved - down the hall, and they have the audacity to _not_ stop there, at the entrance of the hotel. They pursue him still, the painfully vivid memory of their gaze a devil at his heels that he can’t outrun - from which he stops trying _to_ run as soon as he realizes he can’t, now that he’s alone. It’s clearly no use; the eyes sparkling with the holiest of _un_ holy light are there before him, no matter which direction he turns his own eyes - no matter if they’re _open_ or not. And they _are_ open; Keller knows they must remain such, because the backs of his eyelids can’t possibly withstand the _burn_.

But they  _ will _ withstand it; they’ll come to. He’s decided that. Because he’ll face those eyes again - tomorrow night, as he’s been told - if only to prove to their owner that he  _ can  _ and  _ will  _ still walk away. Because whatever game that brat is playing - whatever in Hell it is he thinks he wants - Keller knows he  _ needs _ only one thing: a lesson in  _ humility _ , and he’s keen to deliver it. 

Because he doesn’t care  _ what _ Noël thinks; he  _ hasn’t _ bloody  _ won _ .


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading thus far -- if you've made it to this final chapter, here! I intended to post this a while ago, but it slipped my mind...for a couple weeks... In any case, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I still don't own White Collar or any canon characters therein...and I still don't know all that much about high-stakes gambling at international casinos; I mean no offense!

“Tomorrow night,” as Noël had mentioned, can’t seem to come fast enough; Keller hates to admit that, but he has to at least acknowledge it. He’s anxious; that is, he’s _nervous_ \- not whatever _some_ people mean when they use the word. Not _eager_ . Although...the waters are a bit muddied on that front - maybe too muddied to altogether dismiss a sort of keenness, but he’s still willing to try. Because, after all, he doesn’t want to be _eager_ ; all he’s going to do is pop by the casino, take in the sights that are whatever Noël intends for him to see - to _watch_ , as he’d put it - and book his passage on the _next_ train out of here the _next_ morning, seeing as he’s missed the convenient bulk of them today. That’s not the least bit exciting; it’s a bloody _chore_ \- one he’s unfortunately agreed to, but a tedious task nonetheless. 

Still, maybe he shouldn’t say he’s _nervous_ ; as he thinks about it, it’s starting to seem even more ridiculous. He’s not _worried_ by any means - not that Noël plans to entrap him in some way when he does see him this evening. He’s still not buying the guy’s story that he’s a grifter - still satisfied with his earlier purchase that his business is a touch more unsavory than that, and _personal_ too...but that doesn’t mean he’s dangerous. He can’t be - not in any respect; the kid doesn’t look like he’s ever borne witness to a scrap, let alone been in one himself, and if he, for some reason, were planning to report Keller to the relevant authorities for letting himself into his room…? Well, he _was_ apparently _invited_ . That may or may not stand up in court, seeing as it’d be a classic case of opposing words...and those between a self-proclaimed _thief_ and an _escort_ , but Keller would maintain his stance throughout the hearing, and he doubts there’d even be a _trial_. 

Eh, in all honesty, he wouldn’t stick around long enough to _make_ it to any such hearing, but he doubts that’d be much of an issue. Considering Madame de Troigny has made herself Noël’s temporary benefactor, and she already a financial mess, there’s no way she’d allow for the pressing of any charges where it could more than potentially sully what little prestige she has left; she’d see to burying the whole thing straightaway. And she _should_ because Keller has something on her - something she’s probably even less keen to let slip than her dalliances; her famed heirloom jewels, the last of her material wealth, are made of _glass_.

That’d probably _become_ famous in its own right, if only for the sheer number of wannabe thieving hearts it’d break...but it’s the kind of attention no one surely _wants_ . He’s heard otherwise - that one should accept publicity in all its forms - yet he doubts Marie-Hélène has heard the same. Doubts she’s keen to _abide_ by it, in the event that she has.

No, there’s nothing to concern him about this evening, and as his tux stares accusingly at him from its place on the bed, he realizes he’d better get a move on - get this over with. And there had best be something _to_ get over because the last thing he wanted was to don that ridiculous suit again; once was bad enough, and he’s even gone through the trouble and _expense_ of having it pressed. He certainly wasn’t about to; in fact, he was looking forward to leaving it behind - let the next guest, or the maid, or whoever next happened upon it in his abandoned room do what they liked with it. There’s no real call for one in his line of work; just like he told Noël, he’s _not_ a conman. He doesn’t have any _appearances_ to keep up; a leather jacket and a sturdy pair of jeans suit his everyday toils just _fine_ , and he _prefers_ them. 

But he’s been asked into Noël’s world now, preferences be damned; no amount of money in his dressed-down pocket would be able to get him through the front door of the Monte Carlo.

That’s precisely why, when he does step through said door a quarter past eight into the fray of the glitz and glam, he’s wearing the bloody tuxedo and, once again, resisting the urge to pull at his tie. 

The bartender, same man as the night before, raises a subtle yet curious brow at him when he orders his usual; Keller clearly wasn’t the _only_ one who thought he’d never be back. He wishes he could articulate just _how_ much he agrees; a simple “Me too, mate” will not suffice, but he hasn’t the time, nor is it appropriate, to voice anything more complex. Anything at all, really, beyond expressing gratitude for the drink; even _that_ he downplays, for the smoky swill (please don’t tell the distillery; he doesn’t really mean it…) is just what he needs to light a fire in his core - to keep him _awake_ . He’s _been_ awake all fucking night; his sour expression undoubtedly scared the poor Sandman off before he dropped so much as a _grain_ in his eye. It’s a terrible shame; that is the _only_ form of _sand_ he can not only accept but _welcome_ , and it’s escaped him.

He’s bloody _exhausted_ ...and he blames Noël. _Damn_ the man - him _and_ his ploy…

...and his **_fucking_** _eyes_ …!

A scrape on the bar has him looking downwards, just in time to see he’s nearly driven the edge of his tumbler - his _empty_ tumbler, at that - through the shiny topcoat. The bartender is looking quite oddly at him, and he doubts it’s to ask if he’d like another one; he’s probably working out the most _tactful_ way to tell him not to damage the casino’s property, but it’s just as well. Keller makes a point of removing the glass from the counter in favor of cradling it in his lap - that takes care of the potential injury to the polished surface - and he really can’t afford to have another round. Well, he _could_ , monetarily speaking; the few trinkets he pocketed last night can attest to that, but they can’t do a damn thing about the white-knuckled grip he has on what _used_ to be his drink. He doesn’t see that releasing anytime soon, and it’d be mighty difficult to pour another in there around it.

Though it would be impressive; the pettiness in him wants to see the barkeep _try_ \- for childish amusement. 

But he won’t make him; nothing at all could possibly be amusing enough to wipe the frown from his face. That is, nothing like getting out of here...and again, for the fact that he _can’t_ , he faults Noël. At this point, he’s faulting him for just about everything, however ridiculous that sounds; Noël didn’t force him to come to Monaco in the first place - that was his own fanciful notion of an easy score - nor did he force him to come _here_ . It was _his_ invitation, but _Keller’s_ the curious cat of a daft _sod_ to RSVP. He shouldn’t have; he should’ve just _left_ \- like he’s been repeatedly telling himself, in between sworn oaths mild and not, since the clock in his room struck 5:30 this morning and he knew his first-class chariot no longer awaited. He could still make the next one, or the one after that; if he were to put his priorities in a reasonable order by ten o’clock, he would have just enough time to clear out of his hotel and hop the very last train to Nice. It might be a wee bit of a mad dash, but it’s doable; his legs would see him through, as they ever have.

He stands, relinquishing his empty tumbler - which, he notes, the bartender quickly snatches up without so much as a _glance_ \- and you know, a part of him thinks he will reconsider this venture after all. It’s a large part, too. He’s _past_ contemplating it, and in rising to his feet, preparation is well underway; Prochaska would be terribly proud. But that’s just it; the good doctor _would_ be proud, not that he is; he can’t be, because Keller skips right over any sort of action and maintenance and heads straight for relapse. He does leave the bar, but he’s looking for Noël, and just like that, his stages of change become stages of _stasis_.

Oh well, it’s not like he gives two shits about psychological models - _one_ , maybe, but not _two_. And that solitary shit is _only_ for curiosity’s sake, because he can’t figure out where in the world he _heard_ of them, not to mention why he’s bothered to _remember_.

As it happens, Keller would also like to know where Noël is - even _more_ than he’d seek to understand his retention of (social) scientific trivia. It’s nearly _nine_ \- sure did spend a good amount of time with his inner musings; he must _be_ here. A thought, very brief but _very_ disturbing, strikes him; what if _this_ is his ploy…? What if he intended for Keller to watch his _absence_ \- never planned on _showing_ …? By God, _he_ might have been on that pre-daybreak train; _he_ might be laughing his little arse off, _with_ the Countess, all the way from Nice - from fucking _Cahors_ by now…! Scanning the crowd as he moves through the halls, not once glimpsing the kid _or_ his lady… Keller’s blood starts to boil, an infuriated flush about his cheeks that he hopes any onlooking patrons will attribute to the summer heat, or the alcohol, or anything _other_ than the _embarrassment_ of being utterly _beguiled_. 

If he _ever_ sees that little brat again, he will give him the _sternest_ of talking to’s...and a good, solid _cuff_.

However, he’s getting ahead of himself, for he _does_ at last lay eyes on Noël, and as such it appears he hasn’t strung him along _entirely_ for shits and giggles. At first, Keller thinks he’s been awfully sly - that he hasn’t been noticed...but that soon falls by the wayside; those eyes hone in on his own pair from across the room, and he’s instantly grateful that he’s _already_ flushed. Because he’s _blushing_ \- fucking _blushing_ ; the little blood vessels in his cheeks are going positively _giddy_ with that tiny bit of attention. He can’t even avert his eyes - can’t suddenly decide to admire the the lack of scuff marks on his shoes - because it’d be _painfully_ obvious that he’s lost his nerve; an unfashionable man such as he would draw suspicion indeed if he at once concerned himself with it. Noël wouldn’t even _be_ suspicious; he’d simply smirk, more so than he already _is_ , and add another tally to his side of the scoreboard. 

As it is, he’ll have enough problems; Noël is winding through the crowd now, but the destination he has in mind is far clearer than Keller would like. He wouldn’t normally care - fuck him _and_ his path - but the kid is heading for _him_ . And all he can do is _stand_ there, willing the sprinkled crimson to bleach itself off his face; it’s a good thing he’s lucky, because he wasn’t expecting real results with that. Of course, it may not be dumb luck; his heart isn’t beating quite right - maybe blood’s falling a little short of those traitorous capillaries. He doesn’t care; he’ll take it.

“You know, you’re _staring_.”

“I’m _watching_ ,” he huffs defensively, eyes flitting to two drinks in Noël’s hands (where _did_ he get those…?) and, in particular, the very familiar looking one _of_ those two that he’s holding out to him. “Like you _wanted_.”

“And I’m _glad_ , but it wouldn’t hurt to _blink_ .” He holds the particular drink a bit more suggestively, Noël does - err...not _that_ kind of suggestion, just one that _strongly_ encourages Keller to accept it. The _drink_ \- to accept the _drink_ he’s offering; God, why does he need to clarify that…? Who knows? But either way, Keller isn’t obliging; he narrows his eyes at the whiskey-colored liquid, refusing to reach out. Much to Noël disappointment - and, evidently, his confusion; he cocks his head to the side. “It _also_ wouldn’t hurt to take this - before my arm gets tired.”

“Don’ take _this_ the wrong way, kid, but I don’ need you askin’ to buy me a drink.”

“Good! I wasn’t going to. I’ve already _bought_ the drink; I’m just asking you to _take_ it.” Slapping that sassy mouth is _terribly_ appealing, but Keller has his hands full - full of that drink he _wasn’t_ going to take… He’s just _holding_ it, though; that’ll do him...but not Noël. _Noël_ gets the most pleading sort of dewiness in his eyes and gives a tiny snort of a huff - sounds like a housecat _sneezing_. It pisses Keller off, but other people would probably call it _cute_. “Look, it’s just _scotch_ \- Macallan, too. That’s what you like, isn’t it…?”

“Depends on who’s offerin’; right _now_ , the source is questionable…” He pauses, finally getting a chance to grin himself as Noël wonders what he means, but he passes on it - prefers to shrug. “Dunno why _you’re_ so surprised; ya did tell me not to _trust_ ya.”

With a blink - or, as Keller maintains, a _bat_ \- Noël shakes off his momentary stupor _and_ his smirk; he smiles broadly instead. And he laughs - airily, dignified...but in heartfelt humor. “You’re absolutely right; I _did_ say that. I’m sorry - spoke too soon. Do you think we could _suspend_ it for just a little while…?”

He shakes his head, knowing he’s been defeated; no matter what he says, this determined buggar will carve a victory out of it. He protests anyway, but only to ease a fraction of soreness from the impending loss. “Don’ seem like I _should_.”

“Doesn’t it…? Fine; let me convince you - least I can do.”

Here’s the loss now - rides in along with his retort. “If ya insist.”

“I don’t, but should I? I was afraid it’d be rude.”

“Hasn’t stopped ya _yet_.”

“Oh, you _do_ have a negative opinion of me…” His tone is filled with mock disappointment, but his Cheshire-cat _grin_ is devoid of it; _that_ is positively _predatory_. “I’ve done more with less.”

And Keller, one should know, doesn’t fancy himself as _prey_ \- not to _any_ extent. He raises the glass to his lips - not _drinking_ yet but making it clear that he’s at least _considering_ it; he _will_ for something in exchange. “If I drink this, will ya _shut up_?”

Noël should be at least a _wee_ bit offended...but isn’t; he shrugs nonchalantly, yet his eyes are ever bright. “If that’s what motivates you. But I do promise there’s nothing but whiskey in there - cross my heart and hope to…”

Keller doesn’t listen; he refuses - can’t bear to hear _more_ of this manipulative little twit droning on about how completely _safe_ the quaff is. He’ll find that out for himself - soon, too, because he downs half the liquid in one hearty swig. First impression? It _is_ safe; he can’t detect anything save the alcohol, however _mellow_ it tastes. This kid… Well, he got his beverage of choice _half_ right - spot on with the Macallan, but he bungled the year. Now, he’s not exactly complaining; the fact that the stuff isn’t biting his tongue to any degree suggests it’s the 25, and that there comes with a hefty price tag. He should know; he passes it each and every time he strolls down to the liquor store for a bottle of the 18. Clearly, Noël thinks better of him than he does - assumes his palate is a tad more _delicate_ than it truly is; if he were keen on being entirely ungrateful, he’d take offense. He’s not _delicate_ , nor is he _picky_ ...err, as far as _liquor_ is concerned; anything else might be another story.

But he opts to be a gentleman; he doesn’t point out this misstep. Perhaps karma will reward him, as one can only hope. And besides, he’s already accomplished something worthwhile; Noël has deigned to stop bloody _talking_ for a moment. 

If _only_ a moment… What’s that about all good things…?

“See? 100 percent scotch.”

“ _Fifty_ ,” Keller says flatly, sipping his drink with a scowl. “ _Fifty_ percent _scotch_ , an’ fifty _ulterior motive_.”

“That your way of asking for another one? - to make up the difference?”

“It’s my way o’ _tellin’_ ya to get the _Hell_ on with it - whatever ya wanted me to _watch_ . ‘Cuz this _shit_ , I’ve already _seen_.”

Noël sighs, most disappointed, but thanks be to God, he decides to _listen_. “Fair enough. I won’t keep you.”

Now, if only Keller could contain himself - if only he wouldn’t air his grievances as the kid turns and starts to walk away… Apparently he _can’t_. “Ain’t exactly throwin’ me _back_ , though, are ya…?”

He can try to pass that off as nothing more than an inward mumble, not meant to be heard for how soft it is...and he does try, but he fails. He ought to have expected that - in fact, he _did_ ; he _did_ expect Noël to hear him, because the chatter about the room isn’t loud enough to drown out his voice when the brat is actively listening for it. And he _is_ ; he _has_ been. He does show him a bit of mercy, Noël; he neglects to turn as his ears twitch, but he pauses before taking another step. He’s not entirely merciful, then; he glances over his shoulder with a mischievous glint in his eyes and breathes a smile into his tone.

“How could I…? I can’t be sure I’ve quite _hooked_ you yet.”

Keller’s resolve suddenly, _fortunately_ , comes back with a vengeance; he scoffs harshly, an ugly oath spewing from his lips, and retreats to the wall - out of the line of fire, should Noël’s sparse mercy run completely dry. He supposes it’s cowardly of him, but he chalks it up to self-preservation; he won’t bear one more bit of sass - not if he intends to keep his hands to himself, which he indeed does. A slap would echo all around the room, bouncing off the silver spoons these bigwig patrons are using to shovel shit into each other’s mouths; the ladies would be most displeased, and Madame de Troigny is one such dame. He sees her now; he didn’t before, but at present she’s there as though she always has been, her arm out towards Noël in invitation. But she’s not looking at Noël; her ice-blue eyes are trained on _him_ , Keller - like she _knows_ he’s miffed...and _instructing_ him not to _act_ on it. 

Silently telling him to at least _try_ to be a _gentleman_.

That’s a tall order...but, _whatever_ anyone says, _not_ one he can’t _reach_ . He does reach it - does tip his empty glass to her, and she nods curtly in return. Before, that is, she dismisses him altogether - lets her boy snake an arm around her waist and lead her away. Keller hangs back a yard or two, not wanting to crowd the pair - or, as would be far more disagreeable, invite further conversation - but he does follow; they’re leaving the room, and he’s a mind to keep them in his sights. That’s what he came to do, after all, isn’t it? He thinks so; he thinks Noël would agree, but the fact that the kid _doesn’t_ glance back, to be absolutely certain he’s there _watching_ \- the fact that he’s evidently _sure_ he still is… That’s a little _irksome_ . Because Keller _isn’t_ , as Noël had so eloquently put it, fucking _hooked_ ; his tailing them _shouldn’t_ be a given. Noël should _have_ to look - to _check_ …!

He huffs, draining the last of his scotch in an attempt to get himself together - to recognize just how ridiculous he must sound...or would, if he were to say all that aloud. He can’t have it both ways; he either wants Noël to look at him or he doesn’t - one or the other. And he doesn’t want him to; he knows that and has said as much. The _memory_ of his eyes that kept him wide awake all night is enough - already more than he’d asked for...and more than he’d _like_ . The kid was right in bringing him that drink; he _owed_ him as much, enticing him this far away from his personal inclinations as it is. And he _still_ owes him a show to make it worthwhile; he practically promised that. Now, Keller doesn’t know him (and he’s glad for it), so maybe Noël isn’t a man of _his_ word and instead prone to disappoint. It’s possible.

If he _is_ a con, like he implied, and not some bloody _pro_ like Keller had...then it’s not _just_ possible; it’s _probable_ . But Keller hopes it isn’t; he hopes he won’t disappoint him. Because he’s gotten himself, after hours of grueling deliberation and more than a few drinks too many, in the mood for such a show and he’ll _have_ one, one way or another. He’s already spoken at length about the kind of man he is; when it suits him, he _takes_ . And he will, if he has to; the backs of his knuckles are itching for it - a pretty cheekbone to crack...but he keeps them at bay, and not _solely_ because they’ll single-handedly (God, that was terrible) cast him into Dante’s Inferno. Rather, it’s _easier_ for Noël to _offer_ \- not his face, no, but what he promised from the beginning. Something of that common interest he prattled on about - something worth both their whiles.

And so, in hopes of all that, Keller concludes his inward rant, proceeds to bite his tongue (which smarts) and keeps a good distance as he steps into another room.

This one’s a poker hall - dedicated to that game and that alone; he can tell as soon as he enters. And Noël could too - must’ve sought it out, because he wastes no time making his rounds, looking in on the tables over others’ shoulders. Some of them don’t even notice, too intently focused on the millions of dollars in chips they’re about to get hold of...or, as Keller suspects, about to _lose_ . A few aren’t so distracted; they look up, no doubt wondering why the air’s gotten a little warmer at their backs, but Noël charms their worries away - leaves them wondering about something _else_ with a coy smile. It’s tiresome watching that, and Keller’s only three-quarter ways _awake_ \- much more of this lull and he’ll nod off. But he doesn’t, and what’s left of his dignity will be ever grateful, because Noël has finally found a table he likes and a chair open to him. 

A poker game…? _That’s_ what he’s meant to watch…? It seems ludicrous to him, but then again, not _more_ ludicrous than what he’s already seen, and he’s already here - too late to turn tail. Besides, at least it’s _something_ ; Noël tosses a few chips into the pot and their game that began hours ago finally takes some sort of tangible form.

If...unimpressive. From a cursory inspection - what he can glean from his two yards away, up against the wall - Keller deems Noël an astoundingly _average_ player. He’s up and he’s down without the semblance of strategy, riding the coattails of his luck as it rises and falls. But he’s another thing, too; he’s _persistent_ \- in for the long haul. Other players steadily start to tap out, either devoid of their funds entirely or having the common decency not to let themselves _be_ so thoroughly divested of such. Yet Noël remains, rooted to the spot with the Countess similarly rooted to the place beside him; her expression changes alongside his wins and losses, but her stance is ever the same. She’s rested a hand on the back of his chair and has yet to utter a word...even though, from an outsider’s perspective, she really should - to encourage her teenage fancy to call it quits. After all, he’s won quite enough, dumb luck or not, for the evening by simply _being_ one of the last few men in on the hand...and it’s late now. She ought to be tired, just as she was the night before; it’s high time to turn in.

But she doesn’t, and Noël doesn’t move, and in acknowledging that, Keller wonders if the kid indeed does have a plan, if only faintly visible. Perhaps this was it all along and dumb luck isn’t what’s carried him this far into the fray, watching the pile between himself and the dealer grow exponentially as the _crowd_ grows between Keller and _him_ . Perhaps he always intended to make it this far. If so, Keller applauds him; there he sits, formerly shoulder to shoulder with a host of men wealthier than he, and said men don’t even look entirely bothered that they’ve lost their places. They must be, of course, but he’s managed to convince them it’s not _his_ fault; their quiet (or not) grumbling isn’t directed at him. That...well, that’s quite a feat on its own; Noël ought to take pride in it, and Keller’s relatively sure he does.

But it won’t matter - not _now_ , as far as he can see. Because that gold star isn’t worth its weight in the stuff, and judging by the _lack_ of a pile of chips in front of the kid...he’d need it to be just to stay afloat. The third-to-last man standing...err, sitting, has found himself in a similar predicament, and he’s done the only thing available; he actually _is_ standing now, having thrown down his cards and made an uncomfortable exit from the table. Noël will surely have to do the same in due course; he’ll have to lay out _his_ hand, for he has nothing left to bet...and Keller finds himself hoping it’s a _good_ hand indeed. If not… 

If _not_ , the fat cat across the way, whose chip-based wealth has not entirely worked itself into the stakes, will clean him out, and that’d be _most_ unfortunate. 

Yet Noël doesn’t so much as twitch; he remains perfectly still, his smile not once faltering - genuine poker face, that. However, it’s not all; the _Countess_ deigns, after all this spectating, to move instead. She whispers something into his ear, which he, in turn, relays - based on the rich old windbag’s raised brows, that is; Keller can’t really hear it, given he’s still not dared to venture closer. But he can guess what it is; those two _are_ upping the ante after all, because Madame de Troigny starts to remove her “heirloom jewelry” - carefully, piece by piece - and places it in the center pile. 

Of course, _Keller_ , having been so thoroughly enlightened the night before and thus generously gifted with a pair of discerning eagle eyes, can see the quotes hovering about the air on either side of “heirloom jewelry,” but it’s abundantly clear that this poor schmuck cannot. _His_ eyes twinkle, decidedly eager, as he looks down at his cards - no doubt wondering if it’s worth the risk. Apparently it is, for he wastes no time at all in making that decision; he just barely smirks...and puts forth the entirety of his chips. That’s...well, Keller doesn’t _know_ how much it exactly sums to, but he’s got a pretty good idea; it can’t be less than a couple million - the pot, an easy _seven_ or _eight_ altogether.

Or so the windbag thinks - thinks because he’s not in on the secret; those who _are_ know it can’t be more than five and _change_. That discrepancy is probably why the casino frowns on these sorts of things...but that’s _all_ they seem keen to do; the dealer isn’t taking issue, and why should he? This may not strictly abide house rules, but it certainly isn’t the house’s _problem_.

No sir; their problem it isn’t, nor will it be. If that old sod wins this hand and subsequently discovers he’d risked his fortune for a few knock-offs, he’ll likely be a touch displeased...but he’ll have kept his fortune notwithstanding - no need to make a fuss. And if Noël emerges victorious, he’ll never even know - sad, but true. And you know, Keller can’t quite put rhyme or reason to _why_ , but he has a sense that Noël _will_ so emerge - call it a gut feeling. _He_ does. But it won’t be for much longer; the bets are hedged, the cards are dealt, and though Keller isn’t in on the hand himself, he finds he’s just as curious as the two who are to see who’s _bluffing_.

Now, as Keller creeps just a tad closer to get a decent _look_ , he imagines it’s possible that _both_ men (well, man and youth) are confident; the community cards are interestingly _favorable_ \- already primed for an easy straight. A king down to a ten, all diamonds save the latter...and were it not for the fact that said latter is indeed a club, and for that rather unimpressive two of hearts gracing the table on the river, he’d say the dealer hardly _shuffled_ . Then again, perhaps just _how_ easy it’d be to make a straight makes it all the more difficult to actually _win_ ; if _that’s_ the hand both are counting on, all they’ll do is _tie_ . And that’d be a damn shame; Keller was hoping for more - maybe not _expecting_ it at this point, but _hoping_ nonetheless…

The fat cat is too, evidently, but he doesn’t look worried. And he’s right not to; his smug grin intact, he lays down a pretty pair of aces - the _luck_ of this one…! - and leans back in his chair, surely figuring whatever tie will roll his way. Given his opponent has yet to move, not even flashing his trademark smile, he must similarly figure _he_ knows that as well - that it’s over. Yet when Noël does move, that smile is in his _eyes_ , peeking out from beneath fluttering lashes; when he _does_ move, that terribly confident man fidgets in his chair...and, soon as the kid’s dainty hand lays his own cards on the table, he just about chokes.

Two more _diamonds_ , shining bright like their namesakes, and an ace and a ten to boot - a fucking _royal flush_.

Forget what he said about that man being lucky; he takes it back. He’s not terribly lucky; he’s terribly _unlucky_ ...for having aces in his _pocket_ when this pretty little _cheat_ had one up his _sleeve_ . And, as must be acknowledged, for not having noticed - for _no one_ , including the dealer and even Keller himself, having caught that swap. That’s unprecedented, but it must be the case; he simply can’t believe Noël _happened_ upon that hand like something out of a film - the ones he’s seen advertised but knows are far too clichéed to spend time _watching_ . Noël, though… _He’s_ not a cliché - more of an enigma at this point; he still walks and talks like an _escort_ , but he also, as this game has shown, scams and swaggers like a _con_ gone on parade. 

He’s swaggering now, in fact, in that paradoxically demure way of his. Towards _him_ \- God _help_ him… It’s funny; his eyes seem brighter now, but Keller doesn’t dare chalk it up to mere satisfaction...though that’d be reasonable for anyone else. Instead, he opts to not chalk it up to _anything_ save his own fatigue, and _that_ one which will undoubtedly _double_ in the next ten seconds…

...or however long it takes Noël to reach him. In reality, it doesn’t take more than _three_.

“So, that’s your game, is it?” Keller must admit that was hardly a profound thing to say...but he had to say _something_ \- get the first word in, so as to establish some meager sort of control. 

Well, that was his intention; he has a sense it fails miserably. More than a _sense_ , if he’s honest; he can practically see it unraveling before his very eyes as Noël smiles back.

And that’s fucking _dangerous_ right there… 

“You know, I gotta admit… I prefer Seven-Card Stud.”

Cheeky bastard, this one. But he’s willing to let it slide - be selective in his battles lest he tire all the more rapidly in the war. “Sure ya do. But uh...not too shabby, yeah? - four mil, give or take.”

“Well, I haven’t _counted_ …” he muses. “...but you’re probably right, give or take.” There’s a pause but not a pregnant one; Noël doesn’t appear to be at all wondering what _he’s_ going to say. Rather, he’s letting _Keller_ do that - think on what’s about to come his way - and then begin formulating a response. How _thoughtful_ ...and _infuriating_. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind…?”

“I don’ s’pose you’ve given me a _reason_ to,” Keller huffs - defeatedly, yes, but not outwardly so. Err, so he _hopes_ . “Seein’ as you’ve yet to _elaborate_ on tha’ _business_ o’ yours.”

“I was talking about a _drink_ \- if you’d let me _buy_ you one...but now that you mention it, we _should_ talk _business_ .” God damn; he walked right into that one, didn’t he…? ‘Course he did; his eyes were wide bloody open, and he crossed the threshold _regardless_ \- just as Noël _expected_. “And we will; I’ll be straight with you…”

“‘Bout bloody _time_ …”

“...but not here - bit crowded, don’t you think?”

Looks like it’s _not_ quite bloody time after all. It makes _sense_ , of course; why _would_ one discuss what must be an illegal venture amongst scores of unfamiliar company…? One wouldn’t; more to the point, _Keller_ wouldn’t, if he weren’t avidly trying to avoid another private conversation like the one he’d already had with Noël. Avid or not, though, it doesn’t matter; Noël is clearly in no mood to hurry things along - nor does he exactly _have_ to, having come into a nice chunk of change as a result of his sleight of hand. 

Still, it doesn’t hurt to try and motivate him to do the very thing…

“What I _really_ think is I’ve wasted my _time_.” 

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I _do_ .” Noël doesn’t appear the least bit put off by his biting tone, but that’s just fine; Keller couldn’t care less one way or another, so long as it yields results. All things considered, it may be a bit of a winding road to those...but he has faith they’ll be there at the end - if he holds his nerve. And he will; he’s too fed up to do _otherwise_ . “‘Cuz I coulda been outta here by now; I’d a _mind_ to...but I ain’t. ‘Cuz I’ve been _patient_ \- a real fuckin’ _gent_ , doin’ what ya asked o’ me. I stuck around. I watched your little show, an’ ain’t got _nothin’_ blowin’ my own fuckin’ way to show _for_ it.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Disappointed? - me?” he snarks, placing a hand to his own chest in mock disbelief. “Nah, kid, it ain’t like that; I’ve ‘ad it up to my ears with you, but I’m ‘bout to be bloody _giddy_ , ‘an lemme tell ya _why_ …” Noël looks ready to interject, but he nips that idea in the bud. “‘Fore ya _speculate_ , I’m ‘a _put_ it to ya: you’re gonna lean in, and you’re gonna _whisper_ \- real _quiet_ , yeah? - why you’ve been stringin’ me along since the get-go, an’ you’re gonna do it _now_ . ‘Cuz if you _don’t_ … Well, I’m uh… I’m gonna have to _make_ ya.”

Would you look at that! Noël actually blinked - not _batted_ , but _blinked_ …! He’s still keeping it together, but _Keller_ is still counting it as a win. “ _Make_ me…? How do you mean?”

“Don’ think I need to _elaborate_ , do I?”

Noël hums, eyes glancing about the room before locking on Keller’s opposing ones. There’s something in them - something _strange_ in his gaze. It’s probably… No, it _must_ be _nothing_ \- just the light playing tricks on a tired mind. Even so, knowing that, along with the sound of the youth’s airy voice, doesn’t distract enough; Keller can’t shake the charge buzzing in his skull - fucking _static_ crowding out his thoughts...

“In front of all these _people_ …?”

But he’s not about to let _all_ those thoughts fall by the wayside - all those circuits be shorted. He’s lost enough ground as it is, and this is his _sole_ remaining opportunity to make it up. He soldiers on. 

“Fuck ‘em.”

“That’d be very undignified.”

“Yeah - yeah, it _would_ ...but ya know, fuck that _too_.”

“Hm, that’d make for a _busy_ night… It’s nice to know you have _faith_ in me, Mr. Keller, but I’m not that talented.” 

Yep, he soldiered right on into a brick _wall_ \- should’ve known better than to spar with this silver-tongued _twerp_ . And Keller did know better; that’s why he groans - inwardly, in a most fortunate turn of events - in pure exasperation. His luck’s not run out, though, for Noël’s shining eyes take pity on him; _he_ sighs himself, with only a tad of residual mirth, and softens his tone.

And leans in. At once, Keller wishes he hadn’t asked him to - far more uncomfortable than he’d imagined.

“Joking aside…”

“ _Back up_ ,” he hisses - would’ve been a _growl_ if he’d not stifled it at the last possible moment.

“You _did_ ask…”

“An’ as _you_ keep mentioning, I’m free to change my mind.”

Noël huffs, obviously a touch offended, but he still, for the most part, takes the brush-off in stride. And that’s important, because he strides backwards...if only a measly step. “That you are.” He pauses then, looking away to ponder one of the wall-mounted light fixtures...or the awfully shiny watch on the wrist of the man beside it - hard to tell - before making eye contact again. Tch, as though those eyes ever really disappeared from view… “And I hope you _have_ , getting back to my point; I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Getting back to _my_ point, you’d better _explain_ that.”

“I will - _promise_.” 

He steps forward again, and Keller has a biting comment laying in wait on the tip of his tongue for the precise moment he draws too close, but he doesn’t have the chance to use it. For Noël doesn’t draw close - not at all. Instead, he extends a solitary hand - well, solitary save for the familiar key card in its grasp. This is quite clear, even more so than the _first_ time Keller glimpsed the key; _this_ time, Noël is _obviously_ , _unabashedly_ _offering_ it to him...and he expects him to accept it without so much as a cross word. A less suspicious sort probably would so accept it - would swipe the thing and wait for instruction - or, if said instruction wasn’t rendered quickly enough, devise their own merry way to go about with it. 

But Keller isn’t that sort; he’s left mere suspicion in the dust, and he regards the proffered card with disdain. “What’s that for?”

“Opening the _door_ ,” the brat replies with a roll of his eyes - and a sweet but entirely incredulous chuckle. “I mean, I figure you’d rather not climb in the window; you _did_ say something about being _tired_ …”

“That you bein’ _considerate_?”

“Was gonna go with _decent_ , but I’ll... _consider_ it.” God, if he didn’t _already_ want to slap him… It’s a good thing the kid doesn’t push it any further. “Look, just take it. I’ll finish up here and meet you...and then we’ll _talk_ \- full disclosure.”

“Whatever you say…”

Keller may have mumbled that in a most unenthusiastic manner, but he snatched the key in the same breath; that likely did little for his story - the one in which he’s not the least bit interested in Noël’s _business_ . Or _theirs_ , as the kid would say - and has; he can’t really deny any and all curiosity when he’s tacitly agreed to go along, now, can he…? No, he _can’t_ ; that’s why there’s a smile opposing his grimace.

“Give me an hour; that’s _all_ I’m gonna say.”

“An _hour_ …? It’ll be fuckin’ _midnight_ in an _hour_ …”

“I know. A new day - just the thing.”

Keller wants to deny that; the _thing_ would be, on this new day, booking the next available means of transportation out like he’s said _multiple_ times he ought to have done already. At this rate, he doesn’t even need a first-class train - even a train at all; he’d saddle up a fucking _donkey_ if one happened along, provided it could be persuaded to happen along towards the _border_ . And he doesn’t care much for which border - France, Italy… Hell, he’s not _above_ coasting through the Mediterranean (which is good, because he and the ass would surely sink); you know what they say about desperate times…

Yet he doesn’t deny it, nor does he try. He takes the card and he stalks off - calls over his shoulder _only_ to reiterate that it’d best be _one_ hour indeed. He hears Noël confirm that but doesn’t listen - doesn’t need to; it makes no difference because the time has already been established. He’ll be there, in _one_ hour, and if Noël has the remotest sense of what’s good for him, so will _he_ . Keller doesn’t doubt he’ll show; this excruciatingly tiresome ordeal would be for naught if he decided against it, and that’d be too damn _flighty_ even for _this_ devil in disguise. However, if he’s _late_ …

If he’s fucking _late_ , Keller will upend every solid surface in the room, rummage through whatever contents may thus grace the floor, and if _that_ doesn’t quite take the edge off his frustration, he’ll rummage through Noël’s pockets till he amasses sufficient funds for a very expensive train ticket. Yes, he spends this hour-long interlude in a most productive manner, thinking it all through. 

And all so that, when he finally stares down that third-floor door again, he doesn’t _doubt_ any of this enunciated plan _either_.

It all seems very straightforward; that’s his humble opinion as the lock chirps and the door opens. It’s still his opinion as he steps inside, too aggravated and expectant to do so as carefully as he did the night before. Yet something changes, and not for the better; the darkness isn’t suspicious, given he’s only just reaching for the light switch, but the _silence_ is. He’s alone, but it shouldn’t be _silent_ ; Keller should be able to hear footsteps in the hall - Noël’s, really, if he’s at all concerned with being on time - or in the next rooms over, or the quiet rustling from the beach down below as the waves wax and wane at the foot of the resort. But he can’t hear any of that; he can just barely make out the click as the lights come on, and he doesn’t doubt his ears.

He _doubts_ the air, all abuzz with some kind of frequency that only his gut - the pit of it, more like - can understand; it’s a good thing he’s well-versed in that particular sensory language, else it’d be lost in translation. Because his gut tells him something important - tells him he’s right to doubt, and too right at that, even though he’d already declared, twice, that he wouldn’t; it tells him to be careful...and to take a closer look.

And Keller abides; it hasn’t yet failed him.

He approaches the vanity. It’s the first thing he imagined he’d overturn if Noël’s pretty face didn’t walk through that door on the stroke of midnight, but _now_ , he has no such intentions; in truth, Noël’s the last thing on his mind. He ought to be _grateful_ ; he’s been trying to oust those sparkling eyes from the forefront of every waking thought since the moment they burned their way in, and in this instance, unlike countless others, he’s _successful_ . But he can’t yet appreciate it because he’s a terrible sense that the success is transient - that it’ll be gone in no more than a _moment_ ...and, as it happens, it _is_. 

It’s when his gaze settles on a neat pile of francs - French, not Monégasque - that he realizes it, and that realization hits him with enough force to see his knees buckle. Or, they _would_ buckle, but Keller is prepared; he sets a hand on the vanity, just beside the stack of currency, to steady himself. Of course, that’s all he manages to steady; that success he knew he’d soon see the back of slips away, for the eyes are _back_ ...in the form of a _note_. 

It’s a _postcard_ \- unstamped, but dated three days from now; someone’s penned that in, and he doesn’t have to wonder _who_. It’s Noël. It _must_ be Noël...and if he’s left him a _card_ , it means he’s not just going to be _late_ ; he’s not _coming_. Keller glares at the poor piece of card stock, which surely never intended to lend itself to such mischief when it rolled off the press, as though the thing has personally slighted him, though he knows its _owner_ is the man responsible. He has _quite_ a few choice words for that owner - _former_ owner, as the case may be - but he keeps them to himself...for the most part. After all, he deigns to _read_ the note first - least he can do, seeing as it may very well be the _last_ one Noël is _able_ to write, should he get his hands on him. Besides, there’s a little arrow scribbled on the bottom, pointing _right_ to the francs; that’s a tad intriguing.

_For your one-way ticket out of paradise._

He starts a bit, Keller does, hastily glancing over his shoulder at the voice he _thought_ wafted by his ears. It’s entirely ridiculous; the emptiness behind him would _say_ that if he let it, but he doesn’t. He’s reining in his imagination; it’s already gotten the better of him, and he can’t afford to lose his head - spent _enough_ keeping it in place as it is. So he decides to scoff at Noël’s apparent ability to glean where his priorities lie, even before he made them _crystal_ clear a few hours ago; sure, it’s uncannily accurate, but he has to admit it was likely _obvious_ from the start. He practically wore it on his sleeve - never once tried to hide his _disdain_ for the place; no sir, this is not impressive.

Now, the drawing on the back of the card… _That_ is.

La Place de la Concorde - the _fountains_ … It’s little more than a _sketch_ , really, but even so, it’s a damn near _perfect_ likeness. It has to be; Keller, gutter-hopping slummer that he is, wouldn’t recognize it otherwise. And he knows he’s supposed to; he knows it’s a _clue_ …and beyond that, another fucking _invitation_ . Because there’s more writing below; three little words, also undoubtedly from Noël’s hand, that leave room for only _one_ interpretation.

_Come find me_.

“I’ll be damned…”

Yes - yes, he _will_ be, because his mind is already made up; looking at the disgustingly decorative script - something that would _usually_ make a world-class acrobat out of his stomach - he feels the corners of his mouth twitch into a grin all on their own, and he can’t even fault them. If he wanted to make a case for that...well, he’d have to at least _try_ to stop them, but he doesn’t; he simply shakes his head, almost _happily_ grinning away. After all, maybe Noël has made good on his word; he’s not here, but he’s left his two-cents, and it’s entirely Keller’s decision whether or not to cash them in. Just as it should be.

Keller is not a gambling man - not seriously, anyway; a hand or two for sheer amusement doesn’t come close to counting. But this is different; this time, it’s a wager he’s willing to make - to follow this brat in hopes of _something_ paying off like nothing has thus far - because then he _can_ finally leave Noël and all his little hijinks behind, and he _will_ have something to show for it. He’ll have his pride, of course, but, if this few hundred quid is anything to go by, he’ll also take his leave with more than a spot of fortune. If he’s lucky, and determined, it’ll be more than he anticipated when he set foot in the Monte Carlo - more than the value of that Cartier brooch he’d missed out on the night before, when Noël had the audacity to lure him elsewhere.

He must think he’s luring him now - _again_...but Keller knows different; that’s why he’s still smiling. Let the games begin…

...in a couple days. Right now, a fine vintage Cartier begs his attention, and he will _certainly_ oblige.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that!  
> Again, thank you to everyone who read this story; I really appreciate the look! And I am very thankful for the kudos -- honestly, didn't quite expect any, but they just make my day!  
> Like I said (err, I think I said...) in the first chapter notes, this story is sort of a kick-off to a much larger story (or series of, more like) in this 'verse; I'm still debating whether or not I should try to post here (mostly because that means I would...have to try and finish them...). But either way, I can't thank everyone enough for the support -- the reads!


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